I don’t want a woman who’s not like the sun

a pin-up poster without any tongue

an arrogant one, an unloaded gun

stiletto fellatio without any passion

a mannequin simply existing for fashion

a carbon-copy of a bygone age

a kite that blows across the stage

a doll in a box that’s never been touched

a princess performing for a bitter man’s lust

a sickly-sweet cocktail without any alcohol

a priestess who’ll never evolve, not at all

an elegant prop for a crumbling marriage

a horseless carriage parading through Paris

a motionless mop of hair in my bed

a basket of bones that cannot be bled

a volcano that’s dormant with nary a torrent

a directionless leaf blowing west and then east

expecting the world to appease her at least

as she teases her hair, but I can’t even stare

at a girl who hasn’t a clue, so I’m blue

for not one of these, one of these 

women are true, they weep 

and they rue, but 

I only want 

you.

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From The Opulence Of Invention. Copyright © 2018 E. P. Mattson, All Rights Reserved.