scarlett in his eyes,
my hair tinted orange
from a bad dye job
and long and graceful
the branches of a weeping willow
seem my long limps flailing
through the stale air
that smells as lilacs
to his pert nose and
wonder do I
when the fog that I
can't see but never
the less am
assured must surround myself
will lift and the thorn
on the rose I appear
will expand and overtake
and wilt will the petals
in the sun
the streaks and dirt
and orange will be revealed
and go will he disillusioned

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