She wanders in
when she feels like it,
tarted up, sometimes,
as if every eye in the place awaited her arrival,
flaunts herself
in naked abandon,
flourishing syllabic resonance wherever
wanton desire cherishes her arrival,
poses idly, at times, to capture flash,
smiling, leerily, on red carpet.
Departing with a sneer, she’s
off to sun herself in Grecian myth,
knowing she is
forever wanted
and desired.
A tart to all temptress,
scourging soul desire,
panting wildly when afflicted,
reddened pout
to tease all suitors.
So they say.
So say many.
Some fast while awaiting, and
she’s laughing with margharitas in the sunshine,
leaving clouds fermenting overhead,
idly casting aspersions on your value,
burnishing her limbs with languid poise,
her footstool, your soul,
querulous and querying,
while no great loss to her.
So I say.
A lecher.
No more than any other
of her kind.
Nothing to offer
but illusion.
Still she squirms inside your worth,
dedicates sacrifice to poisoned thoughts.
A tramp, I affirm,
designed and dressed in alter ego,
famishing your soul
until you realise the truth.
Just a bitch,
in the heat of sunny and overcast days,
becalming doubts as her mood takes,
laughing as clouds of despair
part words from mind.
Trust tarnishes her tan,
embittered exchanged coin of nothing.
Shylock,
feasting on flesh that waits
for her arrival
while life demarks
her worth.
scottishmomus 