Pandora
She walks,
her glowing, golden skin barely
containing the soft, silken sinews,
like velvet ropes that flex and ripple
beneath the gold with each divine movement.
Impossible not to watch her walk,
loping like a panther with a languid, feline stride,
a walk that's like a tickle in the throat
of a man's desire,
a walk that can't be ignored.
Who could resist her?
Aside all other women,
she's like a sun to their moon,
a blinding and warming nova,
to their pale and cool light.
That hot sun's radiance draws
her men, like moths to a lamp,
like Icarus, they come too close,
their wings doomed to be burned,
their souls, condemned to fall.
Alone, they fall
to face the wrath and scorn
of the pale, pale moon.
She walks.
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