At night,
the grey clouds of
her dark memories
cover her sky.
As it gets darker,
rain starts to fall on her face
washing
her kohled eyes,
staining
an already leaden pillow.

She is mellow like yellow.
A halo around her head,
as swift as light breezes
on a spring Sunday morning.

She isn't too much,
but more than you can handle.
A kohled vision,
that will never see evil.

A small vessel for her,
to carry a big soul,
and enough room for you
to share with her... a home.

(inspired by ‘Dusty Rose Dreaming’ by vb)

We’re powdered city girls heading into a club,
bright orchids entering the hothouse,
spreading fun with noblesse oblige,
qua somethings suited for silver screens.

Our attention’s as uncertain as the stock market.

Experts at mixing trickery and disguise,
we’re but vague summations of nature,
as we sparkling preen, like excited atoms.

Rouged and kohled to unnatural colors,
dressed in silk-whispers to tease and entice,
in neon-light, broken by par-cans, scanners
and champagne flutes, we’re superhero-like
immune to societal judgment and aghast rebuke.

In our few, fleeting nights of youth
let our voices chorus in laughter.
What’s it to you? Tell the truth.
.
.
Songs for this piece:
Baby You’re a Superstar by NuDisco
Love Land by the Blenders
Nostalgie Du Voyage by Nightflight

Amidst the dark night under the noble scape of stars
Her perfectly kohled eyes of all the puckered scars
The ineffable mysteries of sadness, pain, and rage
Her deepest thoughts run wild on an endless blank page

She is not a dictionary of adjectives
Nor the amalgam of derivatives
She's a simple girl who locked her fears in poetry
As she puts the language of verse into a plethora of creativity

Writing poems is her way of spending pastime
As the giggling laughter of passing rivulet continue for she doesn't know pantomime
Nobody is perfect, so never mind intrigue and ridicule
She's not an epitome but a congeries of atom and molecule

She let her soul speak through words
From the darkest crevices of her mind
She puts sadness like a garment
Into beautifully written lines

Just like the larkspurs, she'll bloom again
For she's not easy to decipher from her red-ink smearing pen
Like a puzzle that lost its significant piece
Everything she writes, a magnum opus, a masterpiece.