Perfection is the greatest form of self-abuse. Tao Te Ching
You just stood and turned,
a poised Norwegian creature, too shy to face
the reflection of your own imperfections.
Your profile framed in a bar-room window,
coyly waits, just to know if someone will recognize
the slip of delicate fingers over
shimmers of platinum hair, notice
the slight veil of bare eye lids which umbrella
fear from unjust, lips with words just behind them.
the neon jury blinks red,
warning your attempts at not honoring your voice.