Angela Tsiaknis

The fools to her, unknown.
In the site of the room, with its grin to greet her.
Like a chorus line, waiting to perform.

In inflictions set to the woman
in such ways the dark sky cannot comprehend.
The rain as clear as ebony, but not that gratifying.

As disparaging as the dead violets,
set forth in her finger tips.
Through the Barron world
these fools appear, magnificent, appealing, and to her.

The hesitation set for, the eagle's eye,
in such ways as the royal sky,
but not as situational.

As dusk sets for her once more
smoke in the spiral flirtation
for fools that please even her.

As though we make a difference.
As you, him, me. Cannot understand.
She can hear the calls from the rooms, filled with
musk, and smoke. Still in spiral flirtation.

As the moon shines through her dark hair,
and cools the heat of the skin.
For this is the result, not to be seen just yet.

She will move through and light the candle;
to watch the circle on the ceiling, concentration
on thoughts that may not matter.
Her... they may want to.

Still, very still as the tide moves in, forced by the moon.
This will cease if she allows, but won't.
The fools continue their journey, as yesterday,
in her mind. They may leave when they are finished.