written by: Karima Hoisan
Beauty is in the eye of this beholder.
Down the street, the people stare right through you,
some just capture what they want to see.
Imaging changes with the hours.
a poor hungry war-widow wears your face.
there is a tired maid slushing home from floor scrubbing;
she moves in your body like a wet, weighted, rug.
the moon rises, now some see your secret identity.
Underneath your flowing coat, they sense
sensuality, tight jeans, half-parted painted lips,
waiting to be liberated behind your veil.
They would do you the favor,
if you’d just smile and meet their eye,
chatting to invisibility,
You…the crazy woman, who some see and pity,
while others try not to look.
Your post-traumatic stress is so embarrassing for most.
At any hour,
when you move down my boulevard,
I see you glide,
I see you smiling from the inside,
and you are beautifully dressed
full of grace,
a tangled past,
a tangible future,
about to escape from the war toad’s curse.
I kiss my hands and blow them towards you
beauty is in the eye of this beholder.
Latest posts by Karima Hoisan (see all)
- This Beholder - February 27, 2023
- Your Treasure - November 12, 2022
- At The Cemetery - July 3, 2022