This poem stays close to my mind, always.
In her eyes, the desire to win hearts
the limitations of being a frail woman.
And as she passes the powder puff over her sunken cheekbones,
a rolling diadem sparkles,
outlines the blinking charm beneath her forehead.
Arched brows, defined lips.
So often called seductive, so tenderly kissed.
Bites them and clings to the mirror.
Gives herself a steady gaze.
‘Who’s the fairest of them all?’
Walks through the corridor.
Confidently sinister, roughly appealing.
Climbs down the oak carved staircase.
Staggering steps, a dizzy vision.
Lustrous night black hair falling on ivory shoulders.
Makes herself a vodka shot. Old school.
Gulps it down her burning troat.
Lights the cigarette and watches the smoke rising, in childlike awe.
Shuts tight the angel eyes once again.