Modern Poems · Modern Spirit

The Portrait of A Woman

She could be any woman at all, 
Somedays off-guard, all days on-guard. 
With her hands stroking or strangling and maybe 
with her intentions half-hidden. 
But she is as she is. Her gaze is always 
Distant away from its pupil, 
And what she's really after 
is you to love her. 
She reflects who she is. 
She could be so dainty
She wears fragrance of dry daisy
She feels some wavers inside flirty
When you walk up to her, 
she’s quiet and still, 
but what she answers to 
is never loud enough to know. 
Eaten away by oppressiveness,
her eyes are mysterious and empty. 
They could be watching you 
or not. They work indifferently, 
Slip into summer river and hard rocks.
And if you ask 
why she won't speak, why should she? 
When all she really wants 
is silence. 
You know what women are like: 
Helen of Troy, Cleopatra of Egypt,
They danced through history’s dark room, 
Swirling round, demand their names,
Be worshipped as Venus,
Be attached to some immortal fame.
Anne Boleyn, Mary Stuart, Marie Antoinette,
All beautifully headed, though spectacularly Beheaded,
Their ruin was surely a better remembrance
than the comforted.

She could be either of those,
or none of those,
She scarcely knows. 
She goes on pondering something 
just over your shoulder. 
This could be the last night 
before you lose her, farewell
But what's the use 
of saying one thing or another?
When what she's really after 
was you to love her.
The beautiful portrait of a woman





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