She has no desire to be called beautiful
or hold some affinity in your eyes
Beauty begs to be captured then caged.
Ravaged then tamed.
Like a verse to refresh
our collapsing minds
with the syntax, rhythm, and rhyme
of a sultry silhouette.
an eager moment of
skin
deep
ecstasy
who's climax a prodigious kiss by fire;
to consume and expire.
Taking all but the fading memory.
Call her, "the intrigue who knows well
the tempo of postprandial dissipation".
Beauty carries neither power nor affluence.
It is the cold hand that laces down her spine.
Invasive.
Cryptic.
She can hope for warmth.
Plead for truth,
but has no desire to be found
then lost
beautifully in your eyes
Those eyes...
but to be loved,
to be loved,
to be.
and yet, it was only a dream
a snapshot of life escaping the grave,
the final breath of fate miscarried.
and you can't help but say
she's beautiful.
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