|
“Harlequin”
Little woman – painted harlequin
A mask of rouge stifling a smile
Filling the laugh lines, the stress marks, the wrinkled velvet,
The cracks in porcelain skin
And the freckled scars that cover her arm
She’s a painting of death, a still life,
She’s hope long forgotten and memories that fade,
That twirl and blur and vanish as she slips down,
As she finds her comfort,
And retracts from reality
The little woman – the fragile flower
The soft silk petal being plucked from the stem
Taken for its color, its beauty, its majesty,
Ground into a fine powder,
Potent to make poison
She’s a dream that’s gone wrong, but not a nightmare,
She’s a fascination that’s ended and love that’s misplaced,
She cries and hurts and digs within herself
And she feels no comfort,
She only feels her pain
The little woman – the shattered diamond
The ashen remnant of a fire of love
She’s a fallen angel, a wretched goddess, a divine punishment
She’s perfection somewhere,
But here she’s nothing
|
 |
|
