Vixen: Poetry

The smoke from Her cigarette 
drifted upwards in a lazy haze, 
swirling about the room 
like a cloud too drunk to form

An apt metaphor for Her life: 
half-molded and poorly planned dreams, 
evaporating on their own decadence 
before they could ever fully solidify

a sultry siren with a red slash of lips
She sipped top shelf bourbon at the bar,
inviting lonely hearts with an arched brow
made exotic by her acrid smile.

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