you summon our flesh in marble
daily-
a sculptor comparing the sheen
of surfaces-
we feel it weigh
deeper
with every delicate click
of high-heel,
each foot chasing
the other along sinuous lines
in a desperate dance
for upright posture-
all with grace.
[ Oh the perils of drinking
and spraining ankles! ]
you have a fucked
up idea of feminine
perfection
but your
trouble is hearing
us over urgencies
in chiselling
at privates to uncover
a first cry,
an alabaster plea
settling us within
your myth-
where beauty,
charm and joy all
aid you well-
marrying lies to
our lips,
that we are born
to serve.
so stick to your works
in clay and call
it wonder-
it takes far more craft
for female
than your dreams
and vacant ideals
when the harshest cut
of all,
is how we long
for freedom,
yet carve ourselves
in those images
you hand us
as art!
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
... ah well ... as I said to someone below - good for the bits file 
Yeth but 3 and 4 are so ... 
Timing eh? 
