Post by neztra on Nov 19, 2011 18:04:10 GMT -5
There is a bright red curtain over my soul.
It is soft, velvety and warm,
with comforting weight and tactile strength.
In a hot, summer breeze, it undulates like the temperate and
giving curves of a belly dancer’s hips.
Lit with fat, amber candles with vermillion flame lazily swaying,
the lolling drape invites a slow, kindled smile and a lowered brow.
In the dark beyond, like a small, dim ember cast from a dying fire,
The performer waits, with hushed anticipation,
To play a role, to take the exposed stage when the curtain is drawn.
She waits for a cue, for some small notion or nod,
But is met with silent, dark profiles, turned away and toward some
Bleak and brown horizon just around a stone corner.
It is soft, velvety and warm,
with comforting weight and tactile strength.
In a hot, summer breeze, it undulates like the temperate and
giving curves of a belly dancer’s hips.
Lit with fat, amber candles with vermillion flame lazily swaying,
the lolling drape invites a slow, kindled smile and a lowered brow.
In the dark beyond, like a small, dim ember cast from a dying fire,
The performer waits, with hushed anticipation,
To play a role, to take the exposed stage when the curtain is drawn.
She waits for a cue, for some small notion or nod,
But is met with silent, dark profiles, turned away and toward some
Bleak and brown horizon just around a stone corner.