An image of the shadowed feminine
She sat spread-eagled—what else can be said?
Brown-skinned, leathery, a deep wrinkled bed.
Creased like newspaper headlines,
No longer read.
A parody, a mystery, textured brown-red,
One nobody could—or would—ever wed.
A deep crevasse, a six-inch ditch,
The epitome of the old dark bitch.
Arms wide, the proverbial prima donna,
Bearing whatever lands upon her.
Beau Toxic, plumped up here to bewitch,
A swollen seat to scratch the itch.
It’s hard to believe her once-soft folds,
Her former comforts—now truths unfold.
Here they lie in prosaic ruin;
The dog sleeps on her, curled to spoon.
To frolic in her leather brown,
Hers is a deep-seated, settled frown.
Once her beauty knew no bounds,
They came, they saw, then stole her crown.
Each day, each night,
Lascivious delight—
Wanting more, to drink the night,
To find their fill in her cavernous brown light.