she whispers a bossa nova
through a sultry pout,
eyes drifting into the distance as if
somewhere else

a sadness floats casually on
samba's bubbling wave

her tender sorrow garners tears,
adoration, and praise

with a simple sigh
and a touch of heartache
she explains the world

"love...love....where art thou
oh, troubled love
elusive love
where art thou, my love, my love"

evasive love fills her days
sensualising dreaminess
essential for the stage

love lost, love found
is any of it real for her?
who's to know?
who can say?
other than...

she is an artiste...tres magnifique!

I toss her a kiss, a wink
and a bouquet
as she fades with the dimming
...'til the morrow's evening charade