Ephemera

 

There was always this blow of passion,
something soothing
and yet demolishing,
woeful were the days
when lies stepped up to her
and she would say
"My dear, put your shoes on."
Stained in the brief encounter
with the wild touch of
pressed ambivalence,
and her happily sad embrace.

She would look from outside the window
and count the steps of nothingness.
Afar it was
and yet so near in her backyard
the voices of howling motives
the desires that burnt her the way
she always intended.
The red lips
gorgeous as always,
the thin long hair,
hiding the painful slither of her beauty
and those eyes
showering with her own
departure.

Oh the suitcase is full
and so is the mind.
Where to?
She knows not.
Trembling in the silence
with nothing but her bare skin
the nude clothing caressing her bones
like the only true care
she ever really got.
"Darling, the shoes" she says.
Dancing the ballerina out of her,
slowly,
then
fiercely,
utterly,
then subtly,
and definitely, until
the next time.

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