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June 17, 2024

Fallen Angel

By Jeff Vierra

Through my window, I saw her on the platform.
Like a runway model, she strutted onto the train,
in matte black satin covered stilettos,
toes open to expose red polished nails.

A matching silk dress fit like a second skin,
cut to expose firm honeydew melons.
Her waist was as small as her breasts were large;
a textbook case of an hourglass figure.

Red golden-streaked hair just touched her shoulders,
shimmering like a treasure of rubies and gold.
Round green eyes sparkled like emeralds,
glowing as cat's do on a clear moonless night.

She sat facing me, with legs almost too long to cross.
Her coy demeanor was interlaced with seductive glances
sending rhythmic pulse through my body
mimicking large ocean waves crashing against a rocky cliff.

A man approached and sat down beside her.
She looked at him, parting moist red lips,
reminding me of spicy sweet Hot Tamales.
Then opening those delicious lips, she said...

"Yo dawg, what the fuck is happening?"

The pitch of that voice grated like nails on a chalkboard.
Its meter matched that of one of Dave's chipmunks on coke.
She spewed forth expletives like a drunken sailor vomiting.
The content of her speech was that of a giddy schoolgirl.

My intellectual self professed...
"I have no more desire for this fallen angel."
My instinctive self wished...

...that she was mute.

Article © Jeff Vierra. All rights reserved.
Published on 2004-10-02
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