Past and New Stripes

The lines run through her body, like

Brush strokes made by an artist who

Has already been forgotten. The strokes, thin

And dark, keep the artist’s lost secrets.

Her eyes, intense and nostalgic, stare at me,

And I can only look down, escaping

From her gaze. Something in those eyes, tell

Me I can’t compete with them.

The muscles in her face are strong, well

Defined, as if hers was the most honest face

Ever imagined. And, the wrinkles under her eyes

Couldn’t find a home anywhere else.

Her presence is imposing, and I wonder

What the world was like, before I could

See those white and black stripes. Still,

Any past is irrelevant now.

Suddenly, she runs and my steps become

Insignificant, compared to her trot. But she

Turns, and invites me to join her. So, I jump

Forward, ready to show my own stripes.

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