Paisley Femme Fatale.

Can she be like Anne Oakley reigning supreme upon a braying steed slathering with comic books shredding down upon the trails browning and brittle amongst the bridled adolescent dreams of the boys fallen asleep at last watch. Or could she be like tin girl soldier all arms and legs awkwardly snaking one skinny limb around the corner to carefully replace the cosmos to their sense of order without the penny eyed young man noticing. A perfumed doll of glare and shadow is perched upon a mountain of lacy white pillows and bloody neckties. I'm easily wounded. Her eyeliner's the fur of the puma. I sit with a frilly smile embroidered on my face with the past laid over my brow like a shroud. I could've just said I'd let her take her time. I could've neared the wreckage with the steely gaze in my eyes bludgeoning my surroundings. I could've acted for the Oscar and held the broken hope in my hands like an award. But I rode off into the horizon of a bottle for six months and came out on the other side of the Pacific rim. And the doves are swirling with the future in mind. The dark shapes are waving white sheets and darning the socks that would've been used for the bandits costumes. The ones that would've taken everything. They didn't and I've still got this grin up there where the emotion comes from. They didn't, those bandits, take everything. The paisley kerchief hanging there slack does its slow bobbing in the wind and never unveils the lover that shot me through the heart. Surprisingly, life is going on and that lofty idea still lingers undisturbed and waiting to happen. She waltzes slow through my dream, waiting for me to find her and finally fall in love.