Doormat

She was a question mark, a conundrum.
The lone mare to the black stallion
A woman of outer beauty and inner turmoil
That he eyed with pristine lucidity
She was beautiful, black onyx islands
On crystal lochs, an unblemished wilderness
With faint sketches of aging, mere silver linings,
An opening for emergent butterfly wings
For the nymph behind the rampart
To bloom to her own inimitable womanhood.
She had a warmth that emanated from a kiln
Concealing 21 grams of selfless treasure
And a magic with words, very few can ferry
From vermillion lips to cartilaginous earlobes
And yet she was the very fiber that he wiped his feet on
A man who could only see – and pounce on,
Her enfeebling lust and her submissive knees
And yet underneath that same door mat
There were plenty of intricate knots – fallen strands
Mattress coir, filaments of satin, even spider’s silk;
A cosmos of small weavings, interwoven threads
All beautifully painted, and stitched
To a paragon of superabundance
In the perfect contrast of grey and white.