The Women doth play

Edges of angst in the eye of darkness from a perfection afflicted form makes its way to wander vast over landscapes of the wooden vista, her monument to that liquor stained vista a singularly glass of poison that merely differs from the other acidic compounds on offer by means of a name.

He travels distance to infinite with a look carried way beyond the brick walls, corralling him and every other drunken excuse of humanity failed by the very core of that meaningless cause.

Even though she carries a heavy willed shackle in the construction of a wedding ring there lacks the promise of that deeper connection with the ever fading shade who placed it there, so slow a second ticking mile style fashion the womanly silhouette shuffles sexily over to this nights target/prize.

From casually purposeful glances on regularity of a paranoid’s clock he glances the red satin coated warning of a women’s form slinking between the bleakest shadows, a shark shamed by comparative measure to how subtle the lacking noise of her approach employs.

A look, a glance, a casual piece of visual artistry to covert the serious nature beneath what most would confer to be a drunkards turbulent ocean like drifting stare, he sees but plays the ice cube to resist startling what she wishes to imply much to what dangerously attracts her attention even more.

Perfection in her form as only a razor could lackingly compare holds as much danger as that said blade, the husband so disturbingly shifting on a bar stall shows just what wholeness the jealously consumes him with but for one touch of her lips so potentially vicious a beating from her aggressively posed husband would falter to threat as a cost to pay.

Maybe this one would best the beast she married and whisk her so theatrically away, with so provocatively motioned a drop of her hotel key into the somewhat deliberately provided pocket of a jacket swung so slightly with glaring intent in the direction she softly sways.

The bitch plays callous style to manipulate the delicate persuasion of both sides of two men’s emotional states with such an obviously understated play, but for the devil in red satin attire to belay the statuesque danger beneath thinly veiling fabric he would gamble his soul

 

The barman a common spectator to this nightly show shows not in grimly stony features the fact that after all is fought with furious fists and air colouring words, that the animalistic passion the women holds in feverishly steady state will bless him a nightly choir of screams in the backroom, as with freshly creeping light over morning dew she is as smoke fading in a fires dying hue.

As from self inflicted peril of both cruelly intended entertainment and romantically twisted dreams of ill inspired source, that barman is as ever the one to rescue and claim her from what self sought salvation she seeks in the arms of a man.

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