Self Portrait

Her tights are yellow.
A second sunskin. Legs shrouded in cotton light. Egg yolk and canary feathers.
Her hair is long.
Wandering ivy around bark. Dark forests protecting the undergrowth. Beetles shining black armour.
Her hands are busy.
Lone freckle on third finger disregards the clock. A thousand lines and folds like paper swans.
Her mouth hangs open like droplets heavy on a leaf edge.
Its as if the world has stopped to listen.
Her eyes are lost. Blowfish on the edge of inflation.
Awaiting the wide open.
Her arms are bittersweet.
One thousand bees tend to honeycomb. Then rigid as petrified trunks.
Her breasts desert dunes singing. One million tiny hairs like sand particles respond to the slightest touch.
Her waist is melancholy. Reflecting like silver ants at midday.
One hundred hands forgotten.

Reviews

[Steeven]

I like the archaic wording of cotton light, though it could blend a little better if you used the technique somewhere else in the poem. There are many cryptic ideas which i adore. It leads the reader in a direction without forcing anything upon them.