Hurricane.

Hurricane

Tender hands

The sweetest of words

Remote

Independent

Self- Assured

Amidst the crowd she roams,

Through every guest list,

She moves in and out,

Like a moonlit mist.

A composition of Picasso,

Beauty that beckons.

Melancholy blue tones

An abstract expression.

Her demeanor changes.

You can’t hold her down.

She belongs to the hurricane.

In this small town.

Glances turn to stares

Glasses turn to bottles

The stakes are raised

Conservatism topples

No sleep, no walls.

Smoke, bass, sky falls.

Wringing hands, a broken shell.

Loss of inhibition, singing to Adele.

Adjusting her side ponytail,

You can’t hold her down.

She belongs to the hurricane.

In this small town.

Bittersweet indulgence

A tragic plague to some.

Pacing turns to stumbling

The judgement has begun.

An outlet, a seeking,

The unintentional decline.

They cheer her on,

Stained lips, red wine.

She’ll smoke you out if you lure her in.

She’ll ignore your weakness if you dismiss her sin.

Innocently

Unforgettably,

You can’t hold her down.

She belongs to the hurricane.

In this small town.