Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Dusty Portrait

These fine lines
on a black canvas:
Spaced by fate and summer,
by heartless strokes
from petrol-driven
blunt brushes made of rubber.
The sensuous, sexual curves
your lips smudge, erase and shift,
again n again,
through breaths from the inferno,
from the deserted soul
that lies beyond
this rude State
I visit to earn my bread.

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