The Perfect Woman

Maybe perfection
Is only a myth, like the hour glass figure
That gets wider with the trickle of time
And the sinuous hips that ripple
Against the air-cushioned coastline
A woman who blemishes Helen’s face
And inflates the impressionist breasts
And walks like the high tide but conceals enough
For adoration by man and for the boyish dream
As one flawless muse breaks open
Ungodly thoughts and trespasses
As a flame on a lamp sculpted of rhythmic fiber
When fantasies litter the third periscope
Only for the superlative to crash to ground earth
And sprinkle dark matter in that narrow corridor
We all worship and travel in
As prisoners in the green mile
Of claustrophobic fate.



One Comment Add yours

  1. mukul chand says:

    Great Post, nice bunnies.

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