Spirit Mask

A silent face with blood red lips.

Charcoal brows, pale face hardships.

Sinewy cedar strands of hair.

Her eyes belie a tranquil air.

Nostrils rouged, a broad blunt nose.

Pupils of black, with center holes,

to view lost souls from head to toes.

What does she see do you suppose?

Fashion runway’s frivolity.

Clothes horse who canters aimlessly.

Superficial airs.

A body to die for, but nothing upstairs.

That plastic smile you pasted on.

The aisle you walk is years too long.

Claustrophobic sycophant.

A worthless life you should recant.

Shrug your shoulders, shallow one.

Grit your teeth and sashay on.

You see her face suspended there?

She’s watching with a somber stare.

She’s mocking you with tribal pride.

A sage too wise for you to chide.

Through the ages, she does commute.

With glowing style you can’t dispute.

Pathetic soul, look how you travel,

with shoddy seams in frayed unravel.

Conforming to society.

Yet yearning for tranquility.

No more to be a gaudy dancer.

Whisper a prayer, perhaps she’ll answer.

© Penelope Allen

01/03/03

Reviews

[The White Wolf]

This is brilliant. Tight rhyme scheme and good choice of subject. I very much enjoy many of your turn of phrase and choice of words. Every stanza drew me in and carried me to the next thought. Very, very, well done!