Shade
Pale ladies sit beneath the shady oak
and gossip in their smothered voices, cool
as shoulders turned in scorn. The branches cloak
the sitters from the sun; each pretty ghoul
devours reputations as they prate.
Exposed to sun, their perfect plaster skin
would peel and blister like a painted grate,
as they believe their faults are lesser sin.
If one should leave, her friends would eat her lips
as surely as she'd eat their tongues in turn,
such is their bloody sport. Deception slips
into pretended love without the burn
the real kind has, and they will never know
without the sun, that flowers never grow.
Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com