Work of Art

My curls are the frame of my temple, my curves an embellishment. My skin smooth as silk. My lips fill with contaminate cherries. Your impenetrable eyes flow everywhere like torrents of sweet waters, rummaging in my past, crumbling hidden memories of unrequited loves. My shoulders are scaffolding that support my rose garden, infested with thorns and apparently fragile and delightful ruins. My belly and my hips the high road of life, and my strong legs tower with forbidden steps. My body is a timeless architecture, where roots, scars and immense deserts transform it into what my unearthly essence has long resided, my temple.