MONET

It was a nativity scene. Hundreds of estranged feet sprayed between the silently serene. They were pouring water on her head, neck hung about the forest clay. Wooden bowls bamboo splintered...Mouth agape, she tasted strips of tree bark. Bronzed hands flattened against the grey stones as the green veins pulsed to the images behind shut eyes; like raging hormones. Pinks and Blues collide to colour her in homo-genius hues. Squares and Triangles rotate into a perfect circle... like the hampster's wheel; running, running to nowhere is her mind. Soaked in dandelion petal extract, allowing her to wish throught sorrow. Swish through a today and live for a tomorrow. Weathers around her change faster than a pregnant woman's mood ring. Not to be cliche, she, holds the caged bird that can't sing. Yet tweets twilight zoned lists and lisps lowered from frontal lobe to web-logged globe. Silver wings stir sensual winds attracting queen bees, whispering, flocking, buzzing to her honey (monae). Reversely this wind creates a permanent windshield effect, frozen like a heart from neglect, requires an unusual suspect to detect the warmth she can project. So stunning physically, the distinctive African comes to view immediately. Chests pop through assuredly like "ALLEVIATE ME!". (No fucka not just sexually, mentally.) Outsiders are left staring and pointing because shawty look like a mannequin. However, she is REAL... I want to... feel.. (her like each individual strand of her hair and caress the committment chokeup with care, easing her fear while transfixing a stare...did you hear?)... Leaves spiraling like pixie dust, genuine-gloss is lustering around her lips. MOVE. This is the epitome of she...but she is still sleeping to the onlookers...so she is a mannequin... The water, they pour, pour and pour by the hour. She now sips...esophagus elongated like the Nile carrying ancestrial wisdom, freedom, because her dome is free yet burried. Submerged by the water these strangers are carrying, belonging to a tribe named Truth...she has rejected more lies than the book of Ruth. Righteousness, righteousness...they whisper to her...each leaving footprints on her cardigan vest..."RIGHTEOUS!" they yell in unison... Silver wings flutter and shimmer to a brilliant golden shine, all bowed in amazement, her lids undraped pupils like 2straight full moons, mesmerizing...to the perfectly plumped lips, lips that had tasted water of Truth... "Righteous" she spoke, they mimicked, bearing gifts of wisdom, she owned them, caged birds sung the anthem, wildflowers craved her touched, clothed her...a woman of righteous idgaf'ness was born, to dream and win ...it was a nativity scene.

-TSS-