The Failed Seductress
There she was, standing by the mirror buck naked,
Carefully juxtaposing her perfect imperfections;
Laughed and cried as her heavily embellished finger,
Followed the superfluous, fake contour of her body-
Ever so faithful, following her every single eerie command…
Her body acted, sadly not her soul.
Her curves alluring, almost enticing;
She was forged in the fiery crucible of lust and voyeurism-
Her mind a trap, her tongue snakelike
Forked between desires and life itself.
But mirrors never lie, it will chose death (breaking) instead
Lipsticks and kohl smudged to form the epitome of pleasure
Oh! Please don’t leave the moans behind…
Soft, sugary moans; piercing the darkness like none other,
Tea and ‘brown-sugar’, at the ‘crack’ of dawn-
Riding the waves of the new generation,
With deceptive veneration.
She was one amongst them- true and false,
A sheep in wolf’s skin
Age eroded her luscious bosom, and curves
But her heart was still young,
She was an actor from yesteryear
(The word ‘actor’ used now is considered a flamboyant signature of coerced feminism)
Her brown skin, wheatish with age
Still emanated the past glow.
Her pockets sounding, from the rubbing of money then
To the jingling of coins now.
The mascara, blush, lipstick and kohl,
Still finds their way into
Mechanical goose bumps
Resulting from tired foreplay.
Old age had worn her just like a torn jacket.
And she writhes in torment…
As her name fades to anonymity,
Her curves now protest silently.
Image courtesy- Will O Lamp