A Failed Romance

His adoring eyes were greatly deceived by her swinging hips
and erotic intensity. She glowed like a diamond, blinding him
to hieroglyphic shadows in her granitic face. He was no match
for her inexorable will in the barbed labyrinth of love.

The light emitted was a zircon glow as fake as her mannequin
face. She acted as if her heart gushed hearts and flowers, hiding
behind a glinty smile, polite and proper as a white gloved lady.
She never called him by name, barking “Sport, get ready to roll.”

She may have been a Mata Hari, or a dybbuk in disguise.
She lied about her New Amsterdam ancestry. Her hypocrisy
knew no bounds, shedding tears, for gaping mouths in Darfur,
without ever leaving her rocking chair.

She was nothing but a fair-cheeked Medusa with a venomous
kiss, tiny titties and a mouth as big as the hole in her empty soul.
When it was over all that remained was a jade back scratcher,
a memento of her never willing to scratch his back.

They fought a war that nobody won.

Milton P. Ehrlich