Red

Red

Why do I paint my lips red

when my secrets are hidden in blue?

Elegance is a commodity situated

in the fine print of my silky innocence.  
There is strength in water. 

Water is the freedom I never have. 
Art beckons an eye full of the kind of lust

I can only share from a distance,

walking through the scourged alleys

of the city slums. 

I dwell in secret among shadows

lost to the echoes of a bolero. 

Dance is my chore and magic. 

Once in a while, I raise my offer

to show a stream of temper.

It is then men gaze on my every movement;

I am a slave of lust schooled for a single branch

that will never belong to me.

The art of conversation bows as a swan,

never rushing into a premeditate pose,

equally matching the wits

of young and forgotten trees.