The Allure of Self-Destruction
We assume we’ll recognize Death
rattling in his raven cloak, pointing
a finger bone our way. What if he
is sometimes a SHE who changes
clothes faster than a model?
Addicted to parties, Death nods
at advances, reaches with sharpened
claws for a light. Casts a spell
with her wand of smoke –
ashes to ashes, lust to lust.
Before the crowd clears, she’ll lure
someone to follow her home.
This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.
Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She became fascinated by fine art at an early age, even though she had to go to the World Book Encyclopedia to find it. Today she visits museums everywhere she travels and spends time at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Missouri, where her husband is a volunteer guide. Alarie’s poetry book, Running Counterclockwise, contains many ekphrastic poems. Please visit her at alariepoet.com.
10/20/2016 11:54:58 pm
I like the originality; I'll never look at a stylish woman again without thinking of this poem.
10/21/2016 01:04:25 am
Thanks, Sylvia. I love hearing I've startled a reader.
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