The Contest

The grey curtain reveals Svelte giggle from clean teeth Mother stands to the reveal To be or not to be Contours and lines mar mother's makeup It is time to ring the ring Tables set to throat wetting meals Underneath two feet dart about Easily uneased I look up; calculating the atmosphere The moon's beauty calls yet Two eyes are calm but fierce Like the lioness to her prey Another with the fired feet are Flamed with uncertainty like the Fluctuation of a currency To be or not to be? This coven echos I sense the bubble of confusion Then Dress it with light talk Till the air lifts slowly Four eyes earlier locked Grow warm again.