The shifting woman,
posh high heeled shoes,
a lavish claret dress,
femme chameleon
speaking to the peasants
who gaze upon her visage
only wanting to hear truth
and witness the light of liberty.
She speaks in her common voice,
her maternal voice,
trying to conjure their hope.
The shifting woman winks,
Alters her sweetened words,
Moves and pivots
her familiar stance.
“Tell me I am beautiful”
she pleads. The peasants
have turned away.
“Look upon me as you did!”
she shrieks to the fading horde
as if her voice were an instrument
of divine certainty.
