Femme Fatale
____________
An ambient red room
dimly lit.
Hot cherry rocks
exhale clouds of nicotine
and stress free.
A Femme Fatale softly
leans against
a supple, chenille love-seat.
Quite the paradox.
One leg rests
upon the other, crossed.
Her long, onyx hair
lolled along her breasts,
down her chest,
to her navel.
Her face, beat.
Wings so sharp,
precise like her gaze.
Her focused, narrow gaze.
Vermilion lips to match
the heat in the room
and her soft, hugging
dress.
Her hands in her lap.
A fellow approaches
the cherry smoke show.
He offers her a glass of
Giuseppe e Figlio.
She declines
the garnet wine.
The bloke remarks,
"sophisticated women
do not tell me, 'no'."
The vermilion woman
suggestively leans in
to the man's face.
She sips the glass
of garnet,
then tips it
into his lap.
He is speechless.
Femme Fatale then
sashays away
with another man's ego.
A cherry stem
to pick her teeth.
YOU ARE READING
Evanesce
PoetryA poetry collection by Victoria L. Williams *Trigger Warning* This collection may contain sensitive material.
