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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