The Look

It’s that look.

Trying to be passive,
Like the burn of your stare,
Doesn’t set fire to her imaginations,
Like she doesn’t care.

It’s that look.

As if she’s not troubled,
At the realisation,
That she’s going to love,
Because love is devastation.

It’s that look.

Those pouted lips poised,
Like a gate rigged shut,
Giving her time think,
With her brain and not her gut.

It’s that look.

That says “back off”,
But also says “stay”,
Almost like a doll,
Yet her soulful eyes betray

It’s that look

Like hors d’oeuvres,
You absolutely adore,
A delicious treat leaving you weak,
And hungrier for more.

 

Advertisements

Autopsy (Sonnet with Iambic Pentameter)

They gathered with a wicked air and tools,
A duty which defiles the man of form.
The imprecation cast from metal stools,
They felt through gloves on skin no longer warm.
The man was just a man, of twenty-five.
His hair was light, his eyes were dark and glazed.
A man who lived when he was once alive
Now faced intrusion, like a patient fazed.
Could death destroy the beauty that is life?
She wondered as the scalpel pierced through.
A dozen men had been under her knife.
Not one had gasped in horror, that she knew.
A monologue she had prepared in thought
Romanticised the fantasy she sought:

‘My eyes had never seen such pulchritude
As which beheld your angelic figure.
At hands of gods were you sculptured in nude
And glowing with fortuitous lustre.
Just like a king commanding jesters’ dance,
I waited on your soul, your mind, your breath.
The cataclysmic build up to the chance,
A disconcertment leaving me bereft.
Earths gravity asphyxiating us,
Though you were far from the sterility.
Your smooth surreal skin remained lifeless,
Fluorescence had disturbed tranquility.
Absconded life early and not complete,
As I bequeathed the cloak-like ghostly sheet.’