A lovely limber thing. An intangible muse. A starlit sight are you, With gilded wings of golden splendour, And eyes that caress from crown to sole in sultry reservation. Angel up high, Do you abhor that podium beneath your pretty feet? The pedestal that thrusts you to heavens gates for all to observe, So your beauty may be invitation to see and indulge. Or have you grown humbled by your sun-bright circlet? Body seared under burning gazes, And bruised by airy promises birthed from hungry lips. Does it make you shiver in delight to see the power of your mothers womb born beauty bend knees at your feet? Or does your blood curdle in distaste at your own body’s betrayal? At how it feeds strangers eyes in exchange for a dozen roses or a double edged compliment. It must be tiring when those velvet curtains peel back and they sit at the ready. Looking and gawking, Salivating and anticipating. They wait and they plead, Thirsty for a smile or a word or a flick of your wrist. But pretty caged bird that you are, You are bred only for a snapshot moment. A streak of interim beauty under bleeding yellow lights. When your sweat slicked feet retreat to the wings you are back to being a shadow. A dimmed bulb absent of its lustre. Are you not a performer even when your costume is stripped and your lipstick smudged? We are hungry for an encore, A daytime matinee. And yet you give us nothing. Why do you give us nothing?