she is a budding blossom,
purple sunset on a red evening.
she sways her body to an unknown beat,
our heads bobbing to sounds we do not hear.
I sit back and watch her fearless eyes
oppose every caller who comes to steal her heart.
we are her audience,
she is giving us a show.
we’ve paid in advance and expect
an encore.
her hips circle the air,
sweet lips covered in blue,
cherry birthmark kissing crows feet —
she’s wearing age confidently,
high-stepping on the moon’s nose,
leaving her mark.
we applaud her efforts,
the goddess falls from her pedestal
only to land near god.
her hands clasped in front of us —
a plea?
no, she leads the lost to her
lying voice, twists our ankles when we stand,
and bellows beyond the void.
she is an obstacle,
the unclimbable mountain, and
every man’s ‘the one who got away.’
we stare at her, unable to move —
transfixed
frozen
spellbound.
©2019 Tremaine L. Loadholt. All Rights Reserved.
