Because her limbs dance in all directions places and times to behold her is to be taken possession no matter where, who or how. Heavenly pleasure-groves and nightmarish tundras converse, sigh, wince and moan, weaving, dualing, teasing, forgetting, in and out of waves of rolling relevancy and irrelevancy. Incomprehendable. You do not see her when not entranced. You do not feel her unbewitching. She breathes, her heart beats, some are coming some are going, but the closer to her breast, the louder her movements, the more all dissolves to chaos. The waves dissolve into a humming; roar of finality; the trumpeting of angels; the song of god; a singular whirlwind of static movement. Chewed up and swallowed, set on fire and extinguished, lost in movement, closer to her breast. She breathes in breathes out births all kills all chooses none and then she makes her choice. She steps forward and out of her movements. She stops all chaos, defying herself. She ends all illusions, defying herself. She brings the key to liberate the soul she has imprisoned in herself and made a home for in herself. Mahamaya. Mahalakshmi. Rot. Resurrection. Set free. Enslaved. She is posed now and waiting, laughing and crying compassionately and inappropriately; She wants you to paint a picture of her. She wants to make you her personal artist.
