She stands, sad, as far away as heaven,
in her stylish black tank top and jean shorts.
Her long, thin arms are strong with nothing
but their own hands to hold, disobedient children.
Was there a demon or angel walking by,
whispering in her ear or blowing kisses?
Was there a ghost, of something traded
or cast aside, golden apples rotten in windfall?
Then she’s “ON”. The smile sweet from her
harsh face, that cuts like a childhood kiss.
Angel and demon made her, and her light
is the eclipse half-light, crimson and bitter.
Cameras steal a piece of a moment, make a
soul a quotation and shard in the eye of men,
and the lonely or just lustful, or those all three.
A piece of a soul, a moment, to embrace the world.
Then she’s “OFF”. The mermaids swim to the top of
her thoughts and bring the leviathan tagging along,
the waters between dreams and flesh and what comes after
all lined up and bleeding her thoughts, but only sadness shows.