She comes on…

A levitating stiletto.

Blade honed,

for a slice to the bone.

All hints

of soft curves,

or round mounds to rest your lips on

or baby suckling,

gone,

hidden beneath her long, black, thigh high

alpacca, turtle-neck-sweater

and ankle-low, black leather duster

trailing behind her,

gliding,

or twitching

like the tail of a hunting tigress

hungry for meat and blood.

Her long, black boots pulling the eye up…

strike the cobble stones.

Her hair,

close-cut short,

silken locks, shaved to the skin,

the droppings left on the cutting floor

to be swept off,

lush no more.

Steely eyed distain,

razor-focused, straight-on.

No thing,

no one,

exists to her

but her.

Until a loud coarse interruption,

from the staring crowd,

like a fart at a funeral,

gay laughter,

startles her.

Caught off guard,

comes a crack in her facade.

A tiny smile,

not the grim grin,

but a spark!

Radiant and real.

Beauty, at last!

But then, is gone.

Vanished.

Nearly quicker than it appeared.

Oh!

Such patient, arduous practice to achieve

this perfect, stunning antithesis

of her alleged purpose…

But Beauty does as

Beauty

pleases.