Without thinking about it, she just rises from her chair.
Takes a deep breath and tosses back her hair.
Ties it so neatly in a cute red bow,
she smiles softly at me, oh, but little does she know
Treading ever so gently; on the points of perfect persuasion.
Like a ballerina queen at some banquet occasion
Gazing like a widow, 'cross an unattended grave,
crushing the chains of darkness, like the emancipated slave.
Into the seeming infinity of a fog-bound motorway at night.
Crawling out of the cellar, and into the daylight.
She stops.
I'm searching in vain, for that elusive opening line.
There must be someway to say it,
to let her know she looks fine.
I'd be bound to get it wrong, Twentieth century mating call.
I fear she'd skin me alive, that's if I've ever lived at all.
She is the unknown star from the voyeur's classic collection.
A promise of pleasure from the house of correction.
As the ripe forbidden fruit she would taste so right.
Apple of fulfilment only thee I yearn to bite.
Along that overgrown path through the fields of her youth,
constantly stumbling upon myths, but I'm searching for proof.
Of her identity.
And in her bedroom, I see:
A single stiletto shoe, lying lost and alone on the floor.
On a plush, deep carpet,
stretching from beneath the bay window, to the bedroom door.
On a luxury divan she lays her head down and closes her Doe eyes.
And then:
The room goes; 'round and 'round and 'round, and,
I, seem to be losing my balance.
CapabilityRed aprox 1980
