She had nothing on her legs but skin,
Right up to just below the point of interest
Where her skirt began and the skin
Smoothed its way beyond. She stood on
Her own, kicking the dirt with black boots
Dangling tassles into the dust around her
Skinny leather-bound ankles, a cloud of
Anger and loneliness. Her red shirt, motes
Of sand there, too, clung to the breeze.
Are you any different? her eyes said.
R 12/01/2023 07:26
The room is as Victorian as the day they built
The house around it. Not a speck of dust,
Not a hint of decay. Even the curtain tassles
Look new, dropped down to knee height by
The unfrayed cords that hold them in place.
This is new; not a museum, not a memory
Nor remembrance. It is a now, alive and
Swaying with the world’s turning. But beyond
The curtains there is no empire, just the pool
Of blood it left.
R 12/01/2023 07:30
Today’s #MastoPrompt was #tassle. Or maybe it should be #tassel. I haven’t checked the spelling. Interesting what comes out from these things.
Run off my feet being a parent. Only just finished preparing my Radio Stradbroke for tomorrow. I need a sit-down without a small screen in front of me. Still haven’t started editing Aggie. Soon.