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.
.
.
.
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