Bent at a slight angle.
Her soft hair drapes in loosened curls
With a nostalgic Autumn sun
At her shoulder
As she inhales the sharp, clean tang
Of small, flowering Sweet Annie.
Authenticity is walking a dusty path
Holding a handful of children’s laughter
And letting them adorn her
Each sound carries on the
Chilled afternoon breath of the apple trees
As they sigh in reverie around her.
Authenticity is wearing
A cracked smile
And underneath she is beautiful.
She’s touched the shoulders of
Old people, young people,
People who deserved more, or got off easy.
Authenticity is tired
Because she has been used
Because in this day and age
Plastered all over their faces
Authentic smiles without braces.
Authentic untangles into the real world,
Or so it seems.
Authenticity is in childhood love
Timid hand-holding under stelectric skies
And true intentions.
So Authenticity walks her dusty path
And a kiss is given, somewhere, on the cheek
Beneath a Sycamore tree in Autumn
Where the wind steals away the watchful sun.