Rouged in shattered perfection,
It’s not easy looking so glorious,
Chemicals and minerals
have long turned her black shell, blue.
Enough polish will make Kemetic flesh
glow like the edge of a knife,
and still not shimmer like the stars.
What others mistake for perfection,
is the struggle to portray
such luxurious resplendence.
Yet all it does is open the shade
to reveal a woman on display;
her windows suspended, beneath the red light.
Everyone is buying, but willing to spend so little.
Pampered, powdered, sealed in layers of latex finish
echo the resounding solitude
of skin, dressed and perfumed,
only to be wrapped in linens
and sealed in stone.
Children we are,
Children of the dark,
and have succumbed to the obsessions of the flesh,
in the shortest age,
in our Kali Yuga,
gasping for the immortal breath,
reaching for ways to cheat the white-sickled hand
from its share,
Clinging to the nubile perfections and illusions
of Prospero’s masquerade.