The Truth (A Poem)



Who possesses
An aura of underestimation,
And yet bears no shadow of fabrication, even exaggeration,
Who will always be a perennial virgin,
From infant to spinster,
In the absence of intercourse,
With myth or fiction.
Who is forever unclothed
Not necessarily transparent,
A woman that can hold no lover,
Or bear no child,
Who leaves no lingering echo,
In the ear drum or the conscience,
A voluptuous virtuous woman
No mortal wants,
Yet a creature who possesses within her
The key to eternal amnesty,
Who can liberate forever guilt,
And exonerate doubt.
A woman whose beauty lies
In skin and soul, in breast and bone
Where outer glow and inner strength
Coalesce to form the muse of history
For no annal was ever written in her absence.
A woman who has no color or tone,
No fluidity or surface tension,
Yet who will linger in the cosmic spaces
Of the space-time continuum,
Who will never be broken in fact, and
Still from time to time is silenced by force,
A wonder of the old world and the new,
A woman who will be loved and loathed,
Perhaps even drugged, stoned and raped,
Yet who will hold her head high,
And strut her curvature
In those beauty pageants,
Knowing that she will wage war
On smudges that blot
The fabric of humanity,
Knowing her beauty needs,
No mascara, lipstick or blush,
Only her physiognomy,
Flawless and naked, and
A body, resisting “Pret-a-Porter”;
– Ready to wear….
A woman who will never
Blush to the million of eyes,
Centered on her, as she
Lingers on past epochs and eons,
As the only paragon
Of perfect immodesty. 


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