Colin Mitchell Williams | + Follow Poet |
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The Weaving of Her Canvas

She is a perfectly crafted portrait
The canvas nuisance of her skin
The collected sense of sensualness
In every lines convergence of her curving 

And as the sun played with its fingers 
Through the shadow dancing of the trees
Her feet upon their high heels
Staccato castanets upon the pavements
Waltzing with the loveliness
Of her flamenco with the breeze

So many eyes were lifted from the aged sighs of coffee cups
This passing reminder of admiration
Watching the floating calico 
That hung within their vision 
And so many men were left to wonder
On the naked sanctuary
Of this woman

The taste she could bequeath
With the succulent whisper of her lips
And the shuddering sigh she would utter
As they lay there
Between her legs

Like unrepentant diamond
With all the promise of a snow flake
This fantasy as she passed them
Gave no clue to the preparation
And of her made up person
She gave no hint

She was hidden behind the brushwork
The portraiture powder, gloss and tint
And the presence of her kisses
Were wiped away in the colour of her lipstick

No one saw the tiny woman
Wishing she knew how to be
More than this, the fashionable enhancements
Of her eyes, her legs, her hair and breasts
No one knew the pattern of the slave trade
Sown with iron into the lining
Of her dress

And no one heard the weeping woman
As her soul went slowly gliding by
And no one knew how she was asking them
For an answer to the question
Am I anyone
Am I nothing more
Than this

Still, she was held in the curse of beauty
Turning everything she is into property
To be nothing more than a trophy
Pinned to the wall of the wealthiest

No one could hear the silence
Or see the sadness in the mirror of her eyes
And no one paid attention to the stitches 
Running through the weaving of her canvas

Copyright © Colin Mitchell Williams | Year Posted 2011

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