Colours In Blood

She stands in front of the looking glass,

Lays out her brushes, a palette of powdered hues.

Nudes layered over the purples and greens and grey-tinted blues,

She lines her shadowed eyes in thick, dark strokes.

She pulls a comb through her long, black hair,

Selects a bindi from a multi-colored sheet.

Red to match red, her lips glossed and sparkling and bright,

Cheeks flushed against the harsh light's glare.

She walks up to her closet,

Runs her hand through the sea of gossamer and silks.

Delicate embroidery to interlace with that etched into her skin,

A scarf to wrap the remnants of a night-long past...

She picks up her favorite bottle,

Filled with the mist of fragrant, golden summers.

Now she adds on her trinkets, all fragile and gold and glitter,

And puts on a smile, bold, elegant and graceful.

And then she steps out into that jubilant crowd,

The joyous city teeming with palpable hope.

She looks up at that face so flawlessly sculpted of the Earth,

Hands weaponed, Her glare majestic and proud.

She folds her hands to the note of conch shells,

As everyone places flowers at Her blood-lined feet.

Celebrating Her victory over Evil and inhumanity,

All bow low to the almighty Goddess.

And then she turns and walks with heavy step,

The same road that she takes this time every year.

A timeless satire, this irony writ in blood and hidden tears,

Lost, unheard, in a World stained red.