Beholden
Delicately perched and displaced from their gazes,
She postures herself so as not to forget,
The curse that courses through all of her graces,
From her disengaged grin to her dress' own slit,
If else had noticed, it was not on their faces,
As her insides recede to a cavernous pit,
But hers is a curse in demand by these places,
And by those who seem to have only a bit.
Though what if this hexing was truly a blessing?
Cold emerald eyes like a dead president's print,
No pestering questions too ponderous or pressing,
A toast with her glass of swirled liquor and mint,
She's immaculate and lavish yet is patently known,
That her table is empty as she dines all alone.
Eric Anthony Crew
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