The boy
drew what he saw.
Frail and pale,
poorly washed skin,
all the imperfections
glaring
under spot light eyes.
The
thin smoke
from
my cigarette dictates
tendrils
that outline her
in
a grey and blue frame.
The boy wants
to be an artist.
His
vision of beauty
and
his grace of profane things
will
be envisioned by his skill.
The
female came to us out of expectation.
She moves and sways to
a song in her head.
A virgin, or so the legend goes,
Her
false sense of bemusement
is only
a token
that
gets trades and deals
out of
heroes waiting
for victory.
The boy
keeps on drawing
and she
pretends to be smiling.
I didn’t want this to happen
but no one said a word.
No comments :
Post a Comment