The Half-Crescent Full Moon: Today’s Women at 15% Capacity

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I wonder if most women hold the title of a doxy
While dormancy transforms them into sour grapes
The disparagement of something unattainable
Cachinnates a ghostly whistle emoting youth’s giggle
Quickening the soul’s piquant commentary into abeyance
The putative reason is stuck in a lunette etching of shape
An impertinent little string animated with post- impressionist’s
Arsenic and lead impaled spirits as plummy cobalt or manic red
Born of a redoubtable family, a scion of a royal blood broth,
Forging knavery to rouse as ‘dolce far niente’ a dovish skip scratches
In a state of dubiety the canvases turn mortally towards a terminus end
The multifarious strokes assuage the vigor caught by that time
Never surpassed by modern day masters of paint as they recycle
The past’s landfills into clad minted perfection wrapped with cyclic dereliction
Atypical experts lost in the translation of a dour dead language that
Poets lay daggo as a prolix dolor of memories flood the blocked screams
Busting with violent lesions and scars, they ostracize to autogenic safety vaults
The outside warping spouts, spewing a wave unseen or seen still evolving
Each thing into the exactness of a duad with a hidden passage underneath
I excogitate once again the tartness of uncovered grapes caged in young minds
Of myths, folklores, and fabled rhymes occupying femininities refined charm
With sensitization designed to render the organism helpless as a stoned skull bleeds
To obtuse to grasp the whole hearted implications of a doxy and her actions
Always arriving to find the missed again as smoke and hickory spiced ashes
The missing is the lost never seen as life starts evoking reality with unreal themes
But I need scarcely add that this revision makes the whole argument nugatory
Leaving me stumped with a concernment for a collective that fights to be one
While piercing me with a suffering blade that remains entirely subjective

 

By: Emily Robbins

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