Luxurious lies dropped in
sparks from her lips
like the last cigarette of the day.
With fine slender nails
she unfurled rolls of red
like match striking breath to a flame.
She slithers her way
through a slicked inky gown
with eyes trimmed in frosting of gold.
Her rose pedal lips
bloomed above whitened fangs.
Rehearsing the lines she was told.
She spends her days spinning
within a glass box
reinventing new ways to perform.
Checking off names
of the public she mocks
While sliding their tongues across thorns.
The actress, the mask,
the palm of your hand
hearts opening now and again.
Her mind is a slate;
a canvas of gray,
Awaiting the stroke of your pen.
Short poetry is an art, and longer poems have a greater tenancy toward sloppiness, and devolution into trite tangles, and being based on having nothing properly (or properly captured) to say to begin with. Still, it's a mistake to arbitrarily adhere to the notion of ascendancy in constraint. Absolutely beautiful things can come from dancing (and sometimes wrestling) within restrictive forms and limits, but a good poem is always and ultimately exactly as long as it needs to be, whether that is two lines or two hundred. The trick is in knowing (and as often in discovering) what that needed length is, and then landing in the mark.
Long poems aren't bad, as long as they are told well! (And trust me, all of yours are told amazingly)
I really like the subtle way that you've utilized rhyme in this piece. The entire piece seems to roll seductively off the tongue, which I absolutely love to see in poetry. Great job on this.