PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Her legs are lean
Like the red ribbon I found
Sprawled on the floor
Entwined in its own
Little ecstasy

Her eyes and cheekbones
Move about in breezy gestures
They scream a certain
Forthcoming of countries
About to fall

I could speak of her body
Like I do of trees
Except the roots they never fade
They continue on like
Splitting wood in winter

In the livelihood of her hair
There screams a genus of multiple
Loaded weapons
In the hands of an unhinged
Outlaw

I cannot speak of her skin
Her palette spawns at me
Like a reptile in waiting
Or a tigress in heat
I can not speak of her skin

And here on this old fashioned t.v.
It's wood soaked in time and place
Its presence digressing
Constantly
I see my reflection
Infringed on the crotch
Of this inside edition
Supermodel