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CROOKED LINE.

A little powder here, 
a lot of puff there
to cover the dark circles
under her eyes
bred by tears
over a lost muse.

A molded smile soon
to crumble into dust
in the presence of moon
but pretense is a must
to hide the subtle doom
in its attempt to burst.

Lost in-between dead roses
and petals buried neck deep
often caught in stiff poses
awaiting an impossible beep
from a far away land 
to placate a destructive hand.

She laid a pen later
and scarred the paper
with a dreamy encounter,
and a few days full of laughter,
to smooth the crooked line
burrowing in her lane.
– By Ruth C. Odikaesieme

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