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Burdens of Imperfection

The ultimate perfection,
she sighs at us
and rolls her eyes
when we gaze
while walking past.

Her skin tanned ever-so lightly,
as if a skilled brush
swept softly across her,
every delicious inch of her,
browning the paleness away.
Her deep apple red lips
pursed and soft enough
to melt inside yours,
and leave your soul
dripping warmly through your veins.

But she stares ahead tartly,
with her eyelashes fluttering
like silk in slow motion
and her sharp, angry eyes
a frosty frozen-colored blue
that sends us shivering
back from any crazy notion
that we might have dreamed
in our silly little minds.
She simply stares through us
as if we were nothing,
as if there was no one there at all.


all works on this page Copyright 2000 by Paul Ryan

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