Magenta

Fumble furtive strumpet.
Your costume cannot hide your heart.
Like a cup-full of wine it overflows
As they tear your halves apart.

In a turquoise dress of silky cloth
Mist veils they can see through.
Maskless, the mirror shows a face
That killed off all those who knew.

Girl, your skill is nonpareil.
Your inheritance: fame and pride.
Your next one waits in a magenta motor-coach,
As in fern-curled hands you hide.



(I'm not that impressed with this one - done in a hurry and it shows. It feels too empty.)

All over the map

One glance and the frozen case of my poise patters
to the floor like shattered eggshells.
It doesn’t take a kiss to give me my fairytale transformation:
Frog to fanciful female.
Like a frosted fiction cloak woven in decaying darkness,
my dull aura suddenly blazes crimson red.
I cannot help but glow.

Not a muttered word stored,
trembling hot, in the footlocker of my mind.
Nor a panic desperate name whispered
in the dead of night.
Instead a lubricious crown placed on a golden head.
Red lips. Hacksaw serrated stare.
Nails screeching across my eager welcome smile.
My crystal wish-granted in pieces.
Little match girl.