silhouettes

framed in doorways,
some looking mournful,
others glaring right through me;
and those in repose,
with the same downward cant
of the hips,
trapped in the motionless sea
of twisted sheets,
rumpled bedclothes,
some sneering,
others, with full lips,
pouting;
always the curves,
every one of them
deadly, ready to take a man
and toss him over the embankment,
for crimes done,
or simply for fun;
short and tall,
dark and fair,
all in all,
they remain frozen there:
captured beneath my eyelids,
as I seek what is hidden,
unwritten, underscored,
italicized,
as I stare, mesmerized;
this begins all,
and ends with a fall,
a stumble, a misstep,
and suddenly,
all that is left
are silhouettes.



December 11, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.