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blackrose_13092
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Old 02-10-2010, 04:25 AM

Flick of a wrist, flutter of a fan
Eyes framed in kohl
Sultry eyes, trained to hypnotize
Rouge lips part, beckon, calls:
“Come”

He approaches, blond hair tinted by red lights
Parting poppy smoke and stepping over used men,
Past shadows playing on sliding screen doors,
Of men and women, betwixt and between, walls
Under lanterns glowing paper red light
She leans farther into the wall, jutting her
Chest out, arching her back in an
Over exaggerated curve, inching her collar
Down her shoulder, enticing, craning
Her neck, exposing soft flesh
“Come closer”

He’s delirious
Drunk on wisps of opium and women
All calling, all beckoning, but,
All he knows is to follow this need
The need to obey the words she mouths
She forms them expertly, repetitively,
As she has on many nights, and many nights to follow
“Come”
He knows, he knows

She lowers her face, letting
Ebony locks spill over her shoulders,
Framing her face, the eyes
Her smoky eyes, wide, bright, shaded eyes
Red lanterns splaying red light,
Dancing red flames, parted red lips,
So petite, so small, she’s so small
“Come closer”

But she didn’t have to say anything
She had him when she turned, profile
Caught his eye, her eye, over her shoulder
A seasoned veteran of many battles is no match for
Those eyes, admiral of men’s hearts, their
Imagination
Framed in smooth, gritty, kohl, smeared
Just so, he could see now, her eyes, huge
Glowing orbs of knowing
Innocence
Behind delicate powdered faces and carefully
Rouged lips, was still just
A child
Not a woman, not even close, just
A child

Masked as a woman,
Masked as a good time
Exotic peony wafting up
His nostrils, his blond hair swept across
His brow, touching a hand to
Her flushed cheek, this woman,
This girl, without a father, without a mother
Sold to a mistress
To become a mistress
An iris, most beautiful
Under the summer rains
His eyes drink in her mahogany pupils
For the first time her eyes
Look away

He holds out a hand
She takes it
Garbed in deep crimson cloth
Heavy and thick, hiding her face behind
A rice paper mural of dragons, flying through the clouds
Free
He pulls her close, inhaling the bouquet of
Vermillion anemone, held in place by lacquered ochre combs
A mother’s gift to her only daughter
Who inhales the scent of his chest, of harsh smoke and
Potent musk, mixed with heavy alcohol, he whispers into her hair
“Come”

Then he leads her, his blond hair
Tinted by red lights, parting poppy smoke,
And helps her over used men, becoming shadows
Playing on sliding screen doors, of GI’s and girls
Betwixt and between, under lanterns glowing red
Paper light, she leans further into him, jutting her
Chest out, arching her body in an over exaggerated curve
Inching her collar down her shoulder, enticing, craning,
Her neck, exposing soft flesh, not a woman, not
Even close, just a child
“Come”

I'm very open to honest critique, seeing as writing is what I want to do with my life. So please leave an opinion, it'll be greatly appreciated.

Last edited by Sizzla; 02-10-2010 at 06:16 PM.. Reason: dp

 


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