She's

She’s concretely ethereal.
Likeably distant
in a slow, polite roughness
of age-old stature.
Statuesque
Maybe…
She’s scented and hate-full.
In love with harsh realms of angst.
Framed rage
concealed in self-mockery.
Yet… flawlessly bounded
Tethered to loved, ancient energies.
Stockholm syndrome?
She’s all that
Not jazz.
Six stringed poetry
in tangled, crumbling sounds.
She’s…nem com;
Her time is now, if it ever was.
She’s unmistakable.
Prided as the queen of dilettante.
She’s not just someone else.
And she usually answers by the name me