Moody beauty, you seem so film noir,
so old black and white against electric rainbow,
all latticed lace and pretty silk bowtie.
You know how to work every angle's advantage,
the soft light of pastels and gossamer smile,
the coy invitation, the confident mask.
Nothing can take that mute magic away,
the secrets of how you apply your face,
including the ways you question yourself.
This is forever; some call it your style,
and an animus toward those attracted to it
that somehow leaves you always dancing alone.
At home in the noise of hard battering rain,
winds of past trauma rap at the window,
reminding you always another wants in.
In the end, it's still a search for love,
measuring the sharp distance between
fresh dreams and nightmares, rage and ritual,
striking out hard with pure vitriol,
then falling back into comfortable night,
posing again to help make it all right.