Fashion

The perfect eye line

The strap on your heels of pride

So softly you apply your mask

Oh God, that seems like a task

How holy seems that dress

And septum on your nose you press

With the tightened leather around your waist

That lipgloss surely has an aftertaste

Sipping my coffee, observing that girl, I write,

Is there a mystery too, in her mind?

Is she waiting for her date, taking the croissant bite?

Or is she expecting her best friend to sit and unwind?

I wonder if they write about me as I do?

Do they think that I should have worn more hue?

Who is staring at me, is it that guy there thinking she's carefree?

What do they really think about me? 

A black dress with white shoes

What's she drinking? Is that booze

A silver chain around her neck 

It seems like, she's a wreck

I realize we're masters of manipulation,

Preaching salvation without caution. 

Standing at new heights of hypocrisy, 

Drowning in the whirlpool of our sinful democracy.