No more the woman

She doesn’t live here.

No more the woman

bent over backwards,

accommodating the unaccountable

supporting the spineless,

enhancing the unchangeable

world of another.

Her bags filled

with the compromises

and injustice of the unworthy.

She leaves,

bidding farewell

to unreconciled promises

written by the illiterate.


The Purchase…

The promises and dreams, sewn into the dress

Were impossible to resist, I have to confess

The purchase of silk, with its taffeta twill

An enhancement required, or the intention to thrill?


The soft touch of the fabric, on the length of my thighs

The warm, sensual hold, of its multiple plies

The cold touch of the zip, from the nape, down my spine

I caressed the pure form, of a mere, hand-stitched shrine


The mirror invited me, to accept its allure

Offering me more, than I could ever endure

Evoking a lust, through its objectification

Subjecting my ego, to its verification


I twirled in the confines, of the falsely lit booth

Justifying its cost, by deluding the truth

Caught up in the drama, of who I could be

Yet I was no more, than the brand I could see