Young Priestess

She stands elegantly poised,

Long, index finger brushing cheek,

Leaning her weight on her left leg,

Both hands clutching the golden staff to her left

Half hidden behind her bright carnation pink gown,

The staff glittered in the soft sunrise of the morning,

Throwing sparkles of light on the walls and floor,

Beside bare toes peeking out the bottom of her robe.

She is effortlessly beautiful,

Goddess-like, confident, but mysterious as well.

Soft mahogany waves concealing part of her eye,

Like a waterfall, hiding a cave of wonder

She is hoping the painter could capture the realism.

Without it, she feared, she would look dull and lifeless,

Against the white drop sheet behind her.

A false memory, imprisoned behind a frame.

She stares as though looking off, at an unknown distance.

Looking disapprovingly at it, her large eyes wide.

Cherry lips pursed, a ‘v’ embedded between her eyebrows.

Something is wrong.

Her beautiful features overcome with horror,

Bare feet falter as she tries desperately to escape.

She tangles herself further in white clothe,

Cloaking her like a devil’s snare. 

Frantic movements inhibit freedom,

Looking up, face ashen,

One last futile cry clogs her throat,

Time freezes, she’s trapped.

The painter makes the last stroke of the painting,

Entertaining a wicked smile.

How’s that for realism?