"overlaid" poems
Woman was made for man's delight,--
Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!
His shadow by day, his moon by night,
Woman was made.
Her strength with weakness is overlaid;
Meek compliances veil her might;
Him she stays, by whom she is stayed.
World-wide champion of truth and right,
Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,
Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,
Woman was made.
10.5k
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
3.1k
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future
*a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:
∑
of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight
it’s all just ******** we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!
if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design
=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create
but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…*
(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Nov 9, 2023
Nov 9, 2023 at 8:54 AM UTC
In My Mind’s Eye
The images pass by
I can let them simply fly
If my will I don’t apply
OR
With purpose that I claim
I can imagine with an aim
Create my new designs
And break from life’s confines
For mind’s pattern - freshly made
Is with matter overlaid
Use the eye within your mind
And prosperity you’ll find
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 8:53 AM UTC
I’m trying to recall a poem or a prayer that I recited
while walking through the woods of my hometown.
It occurs to me that I’ll never get it back.
I suppose such things are meant to be transient,
spoken out loud and left to drift,
But I am determined to capture some of it.
So. Here in the woods
Branches droop heavy and black with berries.
I pluck to gather them and make of my hands
two cups from which saltwater spills.
I see a vision of the old and the new,
the here to come and the hereafter,
overlaid on the thick pine stumps.
That which has passed is not yet gone.
Like trees, we grow on the rotten bones of giants.
There is no king of the once and future,
Nay, nor queen. Only the rough tumult
of life that continues, and abates, and continues.
Here on the holly branch the spines sharpen.
The red berries have not ripened from black.
On the thorns I see blackberries still **** and red,
not yet sweet with concentrated sunshine.
I see the skulls of snag trees, the knothole eye sockets
where woodpeckers find their mealy dinners
and feast on the beetles and worms –
which shall in their turn one day feast on me.
So it goes, as it should be, as it will.
My vision shows oak giants long passed,
toppled and timbered an age before my time.
A thousand years hence they shall rise again.
Fear not; the axes of men wreak havoc,
but may only interrupt the flow, not halt it.
Again I stoop to pluck the fruit
And form two cups of my hands
From which juice flows like water.
The ocean licks the sweat from my skin
And I see a vision of the old woods,
the old ways, the elder magick
That will grow from seed tomorrow.
Hew my limbs in history, bury them in timber.
Let the barrow-mounds be a nursery
Where the thornbush harvest grows.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
have the mumps and itchy lumps,
my tummy's awful sore.
I have a cough, my arm's fell off,
my throat is red and raw.
I have big spots and polka dots,
flashing before my eyes.
My legs are broke, no it's no joke,
as if I would tell lies.
I've got the flu, Atchoo Atchoo,
I'll just miss school today.
Of course I'm sick, no it's no trick,
oh what a thing to say.
I've got the shakes and my head aches,
it hurts so very bad.
And what a bind, I've gone night blind,
why are you laughing Dad?
I almost forgot about tooth rot,
and frostbite of the toes.
I feel unwell, I cannot smell,
because of my blocked nose.
I'm far too ill to take a pill,
for they just makes me gag.
I feel so sick, please Daddy quick,
pass me the paper bag.
No need to phone Dr.SawBone,
he is a busy man.
I need no shots or creams for spots,
just soda and a fan.
My speech is slurred, my vision blurred,
oh mummy I should rest.
Now that's not fair, as if I'd dare,
to dodge my English test.
You're not impressed, I should get dressed,
and stop this sad charade.
My Dads no fool, he phoned the school,
and said I'd overlaid
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
Neon lights from salt rusted beach buggies, gypsy camels and a faint memory of dollops of colour reflect under the milky moon that hangs unnaturally low.
In the car window, the reflection of her pensive eyes are overlaid with the mischievous moon, and a vendor selling animated light toys skip like stones that never sink -
ceaseless ripples in the unconventionally eerie and curious night.
They say the moon has this unnerving attraction to the earth -
a pull, compelling and persuasive. Like a tangled ball of yarn it is unkempt, woven out of threads of enigmas. Each of us having a loose end of the intermingling threads tied around our waists, like our own invisible axis.
Every time our thread is tugged, almost like a reflex we are compelled to look up like a reminder that we might live on earth - on the ground, but our eyes, minds, and our souls are infinite.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
If my mind were a piece of paper you'd be scribbles.
Endless circular motions that go deeper and deeper into the paper until the permanent marker broke through it.
The ink of you would work itself into every part of the paper's surroundings.
You'd be different colors too.
My anger, jealousy, happiness, and sadness.
Red, green, yellow, and blue.
You'd be fine tipped and bold tipped.
Piercing specific places and blanketing every thought that occurred.
If my mind were a paper it'd be covered with your words.
Your words, too many, overlaid upon each other to become unreadable.
There would be none of my own, original, markings.
You'd be everywhere.
You're everywhere.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
All sound is muted
Vibrant colours overlaid with gauzy grey.
My skin, my hair, are damp,
As if those things were weeping, but have ceased,
As if I am made of tears
Or, have bathed in them,
Yet, I feel nothing, nothing but numb
No pain, ah – well, a faint, dull ache
As if my etheric body were trying to escape.
I am lost within and without myself
All insular, enclosed
Boxed, redundant, closed away
Grey is the way to the end of today.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
I exposed my ******* to the clovers
and the clover reveled in the exposure to porcelain forests
from days of bronze and days of clay
the brothers and the fathers
for the mother
at her feet, kneeling
travel wreaths of holly
porcelain children in their stead
the sun bleached wheel of life is turning
and with the poor man's banners
needles in our fingers lead
blood under our nails
we weave further down our destined columns in the field
in the fields
under an overlaid full moon
lulled together into our lovers bed
lulled together into our mother's and father's homestead
I am moved
I am touched by the ridged shell of the crab
as it holds on
clutches to what the earth has
what it knows
as was done to me,
I will hold this child's hand
the mothers sing and they pant
up the hill we carry with fervent hands
new trees for the Porcelain Forrest
from days of bronze and days of clay
this is where our sun bleached vertical bones will be lain
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
I have the mumps and itchy lumps,
my tummy's awful sore.
I have a cough, my arm's fell off,
my throat is red and raw.
I have big spots and polka dots,
flashing before my eyes.
My legs are broke, no it's no joke,
as if I would tell lies.
I've got the flu, Atchoo Atchoo,
I'll just miss school today.
Of course I'm sick, no it's no trick,
oh what a thing to say.
I've got the shakes and my head aches,
it hurts so very bad.
And what a bind, I've gone night blind,
why are you laughing Dad?
I almost forgot about tooth rot,
and frostbite of the toes.
I feel unwell, I cannot smell,
because of my blocked nose.
I'm far too ill to take a pill,
for they just makes me gag.
I feel so sick, please Daddy quick,
pass me the paper bag.
No need to phone Dr.SawBone,
he is a busy man.
I need no shots or creams for spots,
just soda and a fan.
My speech is slurred, my vision blurred,
oh mummy I should rest.
Now that's not fair, as if I'd dare,
to dodge my English test.
You're not impressed, I should get dressed,
and stop this sad charade.
My Dads no fool, he phoned the school,
and said I'd overlaid.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
<>
11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.
**when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,**
it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
beholden to everyone
how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.
Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard
premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.
The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.
(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are ******** suns of no man.)
Dec 19, 2020
Dec 19, 2020 at 9:42 AM UTC
Sad to see the past
Turn into our future
When the foundation our
Creators laid was, from the beginning, incorrect
Their every attempt to correct it went wrong
Sad to see them dedicated too late to the cause
Sad to see them now, so infrequently
Almost dead and gone
Honestly,
I'm more concerned for us
Becoming effigies in rust
In a dying world
Vibrancy overlaid with dust
Beaten all to red
Given in to dread
Purposefully wasting
Our batteries to death
Death, death, death
Death,
Death,
Death
Sad to feel it coming on so strong
When you'd rather dance than
Be taken naked to bed
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 12:41 AM UTC
all my poems begin with the weather,
overlaid with time and place
comforting certitude,
cocktail of calibration,
calculating precision,
a surety bonding.
a shared time and space
with humanity
all my poems end with
"if only,"
incessant self-queryimg, imbalanced cowardice,
a yellowing shadow of red doubt,
overwhelming black stain of a starless night sky,
an inconsequential infection
coveting my weakfish earthbound innards
tyranny of selfish doubt,
the cowardly safety of 'not me'
the pockmarked constellation of
everything tragic body tattooed,
the Cain mark you hide beneath the torn skin
of being
only human
all my poems end with whether
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
Times between night and mornin,
Just when the chill about sets in,
Limbs frantically search for that crumpled quilt
Increasing warmth and ahh sweet grogginess.
A dream floats in my blank sleep
You and me tootling along a forgotten, familiar street
In a battered old Hyundai Santro?? it is.
Twenty years of acquired cobwebs melt
Evoke fond memories and unexplored possibilities
Overlaid with a wild imagination, the images move in slow motion
Me driving, your gaze surveying the landscape
You are older and plumper, I have a beer belly and a bald patch
There is not much to say, or too much to say but no time.
Four Eyes frequently lock and search for something
Knowing it but daring not to say.
Your sultry liquid voice breaks into a song, an old Urdu ghazal,
Of obscure origin and meaning,
The notes glide and acquire shapes in your husky abused throat,
Silvery quicksilver, flowing, and always round at the edges
Unfettered and undisturbed by the bumpy ride and noisy springs
Brings whole of creation in the Battered old Hyundai Santro Still.
The vocal vibrates and resonates in my bones and skull and in my soul
Stimulates humours I didn’t know exist
Eyes lock again, a mild smile is exchanged,
We understand each other
Know the limits and improbabilities
Its not going to be in this life time dear.
Let’s seal it with a kiss
An embrace exchanged over the gear levers and handbrakes
Oblivious to the barreling old Hyundai Santro
Your tiny ******* and Pantene scented hair
Your lips still perfect, soft, warm, moist and downy at the corners,.
Unfamiliar yet so familiar.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
Once I saw you in the stars
The twinkling pinpricks
Dancing across the sky
Reminded me of your eyes.
Once I heard you in a melody
The melancholy tune
Set to joyful words
Reminded me of your smile.
Once I tasted you in a chocolate
The rich cocoa
Topped with a sprinkle of sea salt
Reminded me of your kiss.
Once I smelled you in a rainstorm
The scent of wet pavement
Overlaid with the freshness of spring
Reminded me of your imagination.
Once I felt you in the ocean
The warm, salty water
Slowly drying out my skin
Reminded me of your soul.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
A storm front moved maculately
West to east like weather
Delaying flights of fellow improvisatori
Sepia tones overlaid on eyes like heather
Dull gray weather, hardy like the heath
Ahead of horrid humidity
Far away, is there sunshine on Leith?
Only Scottish proclaimers know with certainty
Fake trees and grass
Sit before window glass
And internal highways beckon
But first I’ll wait
as this flight is late
By some 3600 seconds.
-071410-
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
the weight of the wooden beams overlaid with countless
harrowing splinters
carried on your stainless sturdy back while
you held me there so softly
secure in your hands, even though you knew;
you knew I drove those splinters into your
back to begin with, and continued,
buried them deeper into your skin, you
carried me forward into the day that
I shudder when I remember the way I used to
wound you gladly, without a stain of sorrow
even still turning back now and then to
note what I had done, for shame
the wrath I deserve, you took
you took it all the more gladly, for me
living the life I could not, dying the death I deserve
and you love me still, you love me still
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Brings up the hole in my dreams, white dressed mannequin overlaid with sequins,
her dress form baring my hide, skinny legs in skinny jeans, faced with her blue eyes.
This constant storm of thick regret, plays aching words through my stiffened threads. I am startled by the tinge of when he picks at my strings, his fingers cueing up my grief, I'm
transfixed by such staunch memories.
From this September thru December all that is anxious wrecks this time, blending stages of unconsciousness with the right to bide these rhythmic tidings outlined by the rigor of her whines. Bent by the rocking of the sea and the buried screams beneath, herein these mouths are tanned from where these voices once laid command.
Subtly superior, yet haunting in its serenity and clause, the metal stretched across her jaw, and while the dove is drugged, she cannot bestow her love, she is betrayed thru the very lens that halted life's immenseness and intent. Draped in her hospital gown, even her crown forgone, her gurney replaced her throne, no more royalty will she ever know.
Soma sudor, spit begrimed at ends, tiffs being had with friends, he takes away the organs, sends me back to consciousness with the bends. Every lock of hair I wanted, every piece of night I held, all my organs have been dismembered, all the luck I had is lost. In the corner of my iris there's a prime instance of despair, something left on a scrap of paper, though I could swear it looked like underwear. When the locusts fill this mind with every cadence indisposed, then they flourish on my body, leaving once they've eaten off my clothes.
Hours were my pajamas, where I slept once, now I lie. I'm the afterthought of courage, even in this heady nausea I once found sublime. Here this corpse doesn't leave a shadow, missing time where love bid supine. Even the wind it curdles in me, where no heart beats from this life.
With a child inside this bullet, art existed on her face, twice it eradicated lying, but not the ****** debt betrayed. Simple sin on the interstices, connected by the dots where pleasure writhes. All my hands are covered by this fever, where my mind has gone to die.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
I would ask you out to a movie or so
But the rules of respect mean I cannot.
I see your face and I am caught out,
Dry mouth and a lack of words,
Fewer thoughts in return.
I hear your voice and I stop,
Held in spot, lingering in your waves.
All I want is to turn and gaze -
To look you up and down,
To look and return to gaze on your face.
As its always been,
Those amber eyes hold me fixed
As those fields of silk
Meet with waves of red,
That kiss of milk
Overlaid by the lash of ink
- the way I wish I could grace
the surface of your body
and learn you the way I know mine,
To feel you the way you're on my mind.
Then to ponder the inside;
To learn you, to study you,
All of the wants and wishes hidden behind -
Behind those gorgeous liquid eyes.
Iris flare, a sparkle there,
And all of the encoded meaning
Of that smile so genuine:
Sometimes so coy,
At other so wry.
Your words and voice
- to taste those lips would be my delight,
oh so sweet, the forbidden fruit -
Slithering so smooth,
Deep inside to the hidden recesses,
Feeling that whisper soft skin
Unlocking every trigger of my mind,
Kissing me back,
Hinting at the secrets that
Leave me dumb and blind,
Leaving me immune to any and all
- except you, except you.
Secrets that I could only imagine,
Though that's only where it begins
As I fall to you, again and again.
After that last fall,
I never thought to feel this way again,
Wishing to get lost like my hands,
Now tangled in you hair
Having caressed up your back,
Tracing every inch of you without a care,
And those soft waves of flame
An echo of what smoulders inside -
I can see it, behind those eyes,
As your scent permeates my nose, captivating sight,
Pulling my eye to yours,
Calling without a doubt
To find your eye in the crowd,
Afraid of what mine will give away.
You're the last girl I expected to lay me out,
But you've dropped me, laid me low.
From here on my back,
The mind pleasantly going slow
- recollection doing double-time,
retracing every detail.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 6:11 AM UTC
Let me immerse myself in you.
We'll trade sweet nothings and believe them to be true.
I want the full experience;
don't hold anything back.
The concrete to crumble underneath the abstract.
Your pattern overlaid onto my nonbeing.
Can you glimpse the nonthings I can't believe we are seeing?
Incredible vibrations of our bodies in synch.
I want to hear every cell of your wrought body sing,
and swim in the depths of the futures to come.
Right now our two separate souls are but one.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
I even though not a god,
Wanted to save a young damsel in distress
As she tread slow and silent
Clouding the sound of her footsteps
As she made her way from a forest
With a gentle lunacy
With a brutal yet true wisdom
Darkening the day,
I foolishly grab hold of the girl
Under a precarious moonlight
Cleaving the silence
Destroying the gods will
Setting a series of uncertainty and idiocy into play
She smiles, her gaze shifts
From gentle to stark Grimm
And I saw within overlaid wreaths
An imbued spirit with the name
“PAIN”
Ringing cries unknown, petrifying me in fear
You were a demon, a monster
One I had set free
You grew wings and scales
You grew bigger and bigger, with every lost cry
Your eyes blazed like the sun fierce
And you cried with words asking, No,
Begging to be saved
Your cry was carved deep into my mind
It was revealed to me then what a fool I was
Leaving me with a pale soul overflowing
With love, sorrow and a broken heart
You lost your life, you gave it away
And too what? a fool like me?
A nameless stray that can do nothing but betray
Now I simply lay as a curse blossoms inside my heart
Falling from a height concealed in plain sight
Awaiting my end at the hands of maybe another
Young, pathetic, unworthy, meaningless fool…
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
I saw her on
a casement window,
standing still like
an inconspicuous being.
The place she lived,
was out-of-the-ordinary.
It looked just so-
Profane and Blasphemous!
Yet, I was in an
Unusual Dilemma.
People called her a **********
Yes, a **********
They said,
she uses a certain form of her talent
to make money.
I was completely contradicted.
My thoughts were jailed.
She was an eccedentesiast.
Though, to me,
she appeared like Cinderella.
The Princess of her own world.
Her hair was so thick and dense
so as not even a
single ray of sunlight
could penetrate through it.
Her lips were Salaciously
Sweet and *****
They were overlaid by
a sensual silky vermillion coat.
It was so arid and parched as
if they were craving for Thirst.
She was caked with thick makeup.
She had dark circles underneath her eyes.
She wore these enormous high heels.
And held a cigarette in her hand.
Her face revealed a thousand and
a million stories.
She was clouded with desire and
a little with shame.
She seemed to be all tired.
Her eyes were drowsy.
You could see her feel;
"It was better to marry
Than to burn in the fire of Lust."
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC