you tell me lies but I cannot counter them
without destroying the subtle fabric of our weaving--
they are a truth you have created to justify
your confusions and I am an accomplice
by reason of some idiotic sense of decency
that gets me another smoted cheek--
so again I lift clumsy feet
and shimmy down a hall in your castle--
and ever sorry I didn't stay a wallflower
at the prom of your eternal graduation--
today you are a woman--a slut--a goddess--
anything some foolish man would have you be--
and I dance again--but happy when the last number of the night
is played--
Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.
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