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Femme Fatale

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There is an art in the way
She perches on the icy stone floor
Leaning over the balcony railing
Knees bent and crossed
An art,
In the way she discovers
Swift ripples of the stagnant lake beautiful
Flowing Beneath her lodge
An art, in the way she falls in love
With the aquatic moon, the delightful reflection
And encircling waves melting over it
Art lies
In her façon of crawling under cover
Silencing sobs
Art lies
In suicides of her dreams
In her numb-white fingers sleeping under the chin
There is an art
In the way she watches serenely
Yet in languish
As a candle burns
Melting wax, perfumed thoughts, imperfect shape
Art hides in
Her blank stares
Art hides in
Her tranquil tongue
And in her amorphous dreams
Art hides in the way she believes
That- there’s certainly an art in being a woman.




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