Sunday, March 10, 2013

For K.

Michelangelo, picking imperfections
from the
Pietà's lauded robes.
Da Vinci, grieving unseeable sins
in the strokes of his Last Supper.
Raphael, combing the Christ's contours
in singular displeasure.
Like any masterpiece, the reflection
bears no cruelty like its own,
possessing eye.

You saw age drag its talons
through the snow of your countenance,
convinced vampiric tendrils
were siphoning the spirit
from cheeks like supple peaches.
You felt coarse and brittle qualities
in those falls of raven silk,
locks whose softness yet lulls
my swimming fingers.

You saw skin robbed of its luster,
swore the sun had set on you
as if the star's blazing sway
was never followed by the moon's.
I won't negate your sorrows, but
trust, love, that your loveliness
exists deeper than the stained glass
of your swathing.

You are light shining through a kaleidoscope,
the sun dressed in marbles,
beauty made all the more so
by the brilliance illuming your universe.
You are bloody-Bathory lovely,
a beauty immune to time's gravity
shining from neath crimson makeup,
told by the cold, bemused mirror
in radiance and lust.

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