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