A pair of dead scissorsKept on the dressing table,
Made in steel
With melamine clasps;
I pick them up
To bring near
The soft curls;
They breathe
They move with my neck
Down until they touch
My back arch;
The blades pass through
The cascades
Breaking the strands
A part gazes
And lives
And the other turns
Into a lifeless
Bunch of black fleece
What all I do
To seem Beautiful!
Fake
Pretend
And
To the most
I snip
Beauty!
Some poignant thoughts, some ochre memories and some glittery dreams roll down as the story unfurls.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I snip
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1 comment:
god! that was like a revelation of sorts.
wow!
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