She stops, sharp stiletto stance,
tracing her staccato steps before
twisting her hips, resoundingly inwards.
The ages of a woman –
yet what of them she asks?
Outside that time shall mark her
Pastel outlines – with eyes that no longer denote
her primary shades of youthful play.
Belief restricted; bordering mundane
all outside edges, stained –
biting into yet another
mouthful; of her depressing,
comfort eating cake.
Poppy February 2104 ~xx~