(I had to insert the hyphens or else she’d know.)


She’s incaluable.
An enigma.
Indefensible… calculating…
controlling… commanding…

Not for the taking.
I don’t own nor want.
I can’t.

She has said, “I do,”
yet isn’t in love.
But she rules all men
and owned by none.

The focal point of all
and the hub of attention.
To her, it’s commonplace;
it’s secondhand and threadbare.
But fully expected.

Rightly so, she trusts no man.
For she knows beauty
mesmerizes most to misbehave.
But, commandingly,
she can shave
men’s ardor with a look.
That look.

She’s allowed me to assist, discuss,
commiserate with, search with,
accompany, analyze, and be
on hand for new Divine directions.
I flatter her to some degree,
and I won’t be forgotten easily;
but, she’s too cautious to let me know.

Nonetheless, she has let me in,
and let me approach, ever slightly.
Sadly, it’s sporadic and fleeting.
Gladly, it’s sporadic and fleeting.
She’s a Beauty-at-work.

Our duo, at times, has oneness,
and chemistry, same direction, attitude,
a like drive and dreams, dislikes, needs;
and, not so ordinary desires, all in tune;
We mentally touch, but nothing’s in bloom.

I have been loyal like no other;
rewarded, eventually, with her trust.
She hasn’t placed this medallion
around the necks of many men.
It’s a rarity… a rarified air…my honor;
a status only few men have achieved.
And this loyal medal I wear
costs me no currency but comes not cheap;
as full, and mass envy encircles and surrounds.
I would never, never betray.

But she’s not fully and explicitly aware
of misleading performances from the others;
the legions of men within her orbit.
They brag, storytell and prance, and act
as if it wasn’t mere happenstance.
But data deliverers lose,
so, to her, I say nothing.
Only to them, to protect her,
when the braggers are
within earshot and blatant.
But, she doesn’t know.

However, oddly, yet perfectly,
she would say she
doesn’t need protection
from the showy (m)asses.
But, indeed, beauty needs
protection from those
making mental passes…
and itself.

Does she need me
to shield her ears and eyes?
And her lips, oh, those lips,
speak for themselves.
She doesn’t falter, yield,
submit, consent or break.
No humoring for my sake.
She doesn’t cry, has no regrets
and has no guilt.
Nothing changes but
the tint of her eyes.

Foolish men make attempts
to own her and those
slightly less… to borrow.
But they err, using gifts,
power, status, seduction.
Their failure is elementary
but legendary.
Simply, she doesn’t
climb rainbows.
She’s a Beauty-at-work.

Though she’s always in flight,
she finds time to push me away;
thus, disrupting my plight.
Not with a potent push
but, a well-timed mental nudge.

I give her hours of my time
and get, barely, seconds in return;
I give her protection from the prey
but has no clue she’s a target;
I offer real sympathy when needed
but, barely a ripple of concern in return;
I shoot at her questions meant to assist
but no salvo of return fire, hardly ever.
Yet, who’s to blame?

She’s taken the best of me
and leaves the rest of me;
she’s taken the heart of me
and left just a part of me;
and doesn’t know what she’s done.

She’s an intellect in motion
and can’t be nested;
flying solo for the duration.

Mere minutes with Beauty-at-work
can absorb her essence strongly;
you part, enraptured, yearning for more,
and to further examine her riddle.
But, sometimes, more allotment
with Beauty and her hourglass
leaves you wondering
if she was even with you.
You depart empty…
but, a devious part of her plan.

This Goddess controls and leads,
and isn’t fooled or enwrapped;
pedestal-placed, based on all standards,
but subordinated by her own looking glass.

She’s an enigma-at-large,
and, the price I have to pay.
She’s a Beauty-at-work

Rob Spina

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