Art is an extrovert.

She goes out clubbing on Saturday nights,
scotch in hand,
indecisiveness plaguing her mind,
dancing ‘til her feet are numb.

She rings the tune of a
possessed conductor.
White dress, black collar,
I know her face,
but not her name.

From the bar I watch
her obsidian silhouette expand
as her skin becomes rose petals,
and her hips conduct the music.

She looks like a drunken mess,
arms flailing, heels bending,
but to the peculiar mind
she paints
an alluring picture.