that winged gossamer devil-woman,
wild-eyed and curious,
her jealous flair ups masked,
surface innocence – personified;
the deep black vortex of those emerald eyes,
swallowing cautionary tales -
spreading the thick tropical malaise
pressed deep against hardening bamboo;
raven curls perched in ragged bundles,
thin-lipped dancing Isadora
her cold dead visage,
tap, tap, tapping wigwam thoughts -
sway and bent madly about her plunder.
decayed but not forgotten,
lie and lay their drunken perfume
upon splendiferous worshipers.
She corrodes beneath burdening shafts
pierced light filtering through,
darkened recesses that cannot bake away
the frigid pallor from possessed souls.
Tangled in sashay ropes of seaweed
her crusted barnacles dig a grave
measuring the moments in patient repose
with the tick, tock, ticking of painful notes
caught inside each fertile naked brain.