If only he had known;
Her scent was a mere accent color,
Barely detracting from a ready palette of bright hopes,
She was never as gentle as a field of poppies.
Her presence blinded many before you.
You were the white her brushes were missing, her contrast color
To dampen the vivid hues of her vixen,
Before you, her muffled heart screamed,
Like a junkie on a binge, gifted but sorrow-filled.
She was the paradoxical woman, a SHE woman
Capable only of bloodshed,
Like a double edge sword.
A woman should never be ruled
By monthly renewal, that which is the color of yesterday’s anger….
Which ekes blood from a crevice of beauty?
Confusing as it is, not everyone looks beyond a pond’s first layer
Curvaceous, seemingly delicate, legs like a race horse, slender mind
Still her eyes look down, at her feet.
Her biggest fear, her own shadow, keeps her from wanting to know more.
A pity…. that the mirror tells only half of her story.