Parisian horses scream
for the loss of a rider ethereal.
Charcoal weeps for the muse
too wicked to still.
Sari drenched with regret,
flesh greeting the chill.
Ivory limbs clinging
to sooty earth—
gilded bangles silenced,
bated as mudra trembles.
Battlefields bloodied
by the flick of your hip,
the flux of your breath,
the thrust of your will.
Warlords heavy laden with lust
sway from memory,
un-reality tilts,
legend remains
as the mask
cements.
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Submission Name: Eye of the Day (Mata Hari lives)
