The delicate chiselling of chin to cheek,

the hollow and blade of the shoulders and

the soft sweep of waist and thigh.

The press of over-worked fingers scraping away

all impurities and wiping over the mistakes,

the shadows lengthening with every pain-staking

hour of rehabilitation and absolute accuracy.


The fading light drags over the rolling shapes

of synthetic skin, the concentration and the

ultimate conclusion of this endless ritual.

Cursing against the time it takes for the darkness to end

and for the perfect face - frozen for a second, perhaps a minute -


and then suddenly the turn of the tide and the unrelenting

wind grasps loosely at wrists and ankles and

blows every inch of you into the sand and the dust that

you were made of, that you were pretending you weren't.

Always pretending.


AN I know the last stanza is different, its sort of an experiment in styles... from the tightly controlled beginning, to the wilder ending? I don't know, let me know what u think :)