16 Jan


She has weathered beauty,
stained with imperfection,
an aged blot of burnt flesh
at the slope of her thigh,
hampering the splendor
of her most sultry curve;
the mark may otherwise
have gone unnoticed,
but for her appointment
to seduce her employ,
on display just for him,
instrument of his needs;
had he not commanded her,
she would, without reserve,
give her wordless reply
to the question in his eyes,
as he dutifully sought out
her most compliant mood;
beneath the summer moon,
her time is unscheduled,
allowing her task and trade
to ripen with the swelter
of this debased August night;
she focuses on window blinds,
and their uniform correctness,
detaching herself completely
from the flow of his hands;
and when the deed is done,
his reply toward leaving
exits his tired form away,
leaving her once more
victim of summer moon,
marked by burnt flesh
staining her perfect thigh,
but serving to remind her
of a past she left behind.

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Posted by on January 16, 2016 in My Poetry



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