My Lady

I've always believed I had an artistic entity hidden somewhere deep within me.It's not the happy-hippie-flowers-and-bandanas type,and most definitely not the orange-sunsets-I-would-like-to-drown-your-wretched-soul-in-tears-with-the-deliberate-slow-strumming-of-my-vintage-guitar.

It's more of like the lovechild of  sea foam and molten lava; of morning dews and hail stones.

She-

yes she-

is a bubbling ball of beautiful contradictions who reaches the height of life at 3 in the morning.

She feeds on cliché love notes,aged polaroids,burnt wicker,pressed flowers,melted candle sticks,and antique gramophones.Yet she screams and runs away at the sight of chocolate coated strawberries,James Dean films,dinner reservations,and diamond rings enclosed in Tiffany boxes. 

She was born in the age of Plato,when girls were bathed in scented oils and clothed with fabric which draped around their bodies like grape vines.

She found beauty when MichelAngelo painted her naked body as she played with cherubins and nymphs.

She learned how to laugh during the time of Fitzgerald;when alcohol was illegal but overflowing,flapper dresses were a thing,and Art Deco was everywhere.

She became a lady when she danced the night away in red stilettos as Frank Sinatra sang in the background.

But my lady isn't all innocent and naïve.My lady is shards of glass pasted back together only by the love of all things beautiful.

She has seen the horrors of nuclear bombs,bayonets,last kisses,pin-up girls,and fighter planes.

She has experienced homelessness,hunger,shame,winter,and drought.

She has had her heart broken by petty things like a boyband's separation,and serious things like death and disease.

My lady is cracks concealed by cement.

She is a broken music box which still has a twirling ballerina on top.

She is a vending machine with a broken light.

My lady is a cello with a broken third string.

She is the Gospel of Mary Magdalene.

She is a piece of bread with mold on top.

My lady is spoilt and broken,but she still has value.

She can still produce good music in a very eerie way.

She can still provide warmth and comfort,though not enough to make you survive the night.

She can still write about things that make you smile,though mostly would make you cry.

She can engage in quality conversations,but not lasting ones.

My lady can still love,but love a little less.

This lady,my lady,is the source of my art.

She is my core,

my rock,

my center.

And if you wish to keep me,

you must give your heart to my lady.

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