Musings on Impudence

The pungent musk of regal air
envelops her petite poised frame.


Rolling off her proud tongue are
words of feigned affection,
words of beguiling sympathy,
words that entice ire.


Haughtiness encompass
the windows to her soul,
and she thinks herself without flaw--
above us all mere mortals.
Her gaze slices through condescendingly,
a gorgeous smile painted on scarlet petals.


Hypocrisy is her shadow
and mischief marks
each stilletoed footstep
that trail leisurely behind her.


Such is the nature
of the midnight rose.


Yet, still, she receives
constant praise
from the blind,
from those who choose to be blind,
from the deaf,
from those who choose to be deaf.


They cling on precariously
to the fringes of the
obsidian, velvet cloak
draped loosely around
her petite poised frame,
as if their very lives depended
on her subtle cruelty.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2011