The Writers Voice
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I see her
through the amber-tinted underground of the coffee
Windows to the soul shut, save for the keyhole
concealing a million flames.
Her tears never paint her cheeks, but remain acrid
Poised on the cusp of her liquid-fire brown eyes.
Her breath matches the steam in her coffee cup.
She exhales indignity in tendrils, like sweet hash
or life-saving nicotine
While artsy has-beens circle around her, stealing
Through their horn-rimmed Rushdie impressions.
She fights them off with her gaze, and shifts her
Daring them to come closer.
I see her....
I see her strong fingers tremble around her
Melodic Baroque waves part the jazz-infusion of her
Her chic boots, their leather aroma still holding
Despite the organic stench in the air,
She wraps herself up, enclosing the warmth of
And steps over her crippled soul,
Into the cold and breathtaking world.
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