Self Portrait:
Canon 5d Mark II
50 mm 1.2

.::Frayed Silk::.

I
am never soft
(though
he says I am)

Rather,
I ‘m
prickly ’round my tart edges
hard, at my core;
moody for conservative silence but I
do adore
the rave of bodies scaling music like
heathen slaves
on my porn…oh…
I bite
(quite nice, I might add)
branding buttocks or tearing soul-
both catch my eye in the preying light
’n’
I just might
hate to smile if the dawn is not quite right
through splicing azure haze…
I’m

only
amazed
if its
liquid

So insipid is the dew and its poetic shimmer.
I much prefer the glimmer of gluttony
a’sparkle at the seam of serendipity like
spreading ink along the hem of hope’s cotton dress
I
Love
all of the duress
that follows her …

He
says I’m stern,
spewing shards no bard’s ever pondered -
moving endlessly onward;
stepping effortlessly o’er the sheep
that have offered to flock
near my feet,
gathering wool as I go to greet Chaos
yet

I find him huddled
near Winter
awaiting the splinter of spring in my kiss,
wonder-ing incessantly of my rainbow’s summer, and if
I’ll fall
like leaves
during the reign of meteorological conduit
when the moon rises blue in the sky
but, I cry
candycanes
whilst averting my eyes
and dye my hair
red, again
to cover the grey-ing sentiments
at the root of my steel’s demise.

I
wear rust
as a breastplate;
understated
unfinished

Yes,
he says I’m “soft” …

(I beg to differ)

By: Agent 7
Copyright 2011