Kolasch.com

Her skin is smooth—
poured from a mold
and sanded down to shape,
always shaping, fingers tracing
the right curves, the perfect
imperfections.
Cold and grey, she doesn’t yield
against my touch.
There is resistance—
the cold tang of stone
against my lips.
Fire is her eyes,
the reflection of burning
behind us. Don’t look—
one command, one rule,
don’t look—
I looked as her body hardened.
Life dried from her,
leaving this statue—
a monument of sin.

JKolasch