My voice appears cold,
Like icicle drips into sea voids;
I drink the damnation in one swift swig,
Down the hatch the liquid pours,
Aching in cool rapture,
Rampant in target lined lipstick,
I blanket in tragic stance.
As mannequins stand in centerfolds,
Turning sickness into vanity,
I peer, astonished at the agony;
Tongue bruised with painful words,
Invited to dance, the dance,
The ancients forgot to mention;
Grace and mercy construe into dark,
I sway with delicate fingers,
Tapered to my dress,
Lingering in effervescent light,
Anchored on tiptoed carousel;
I falter in vacant masquerade,
Sheltered archangel, shivers,
With silver wings of paradise,
Unfurled in twilight canopy;
She's fallen.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
