Wednesday, September 15, 2010



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.

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