Picasso's Masque

I think of you in Picasso's eye
soft curves not quite concealing
your acute angular motion
hard, likened to steel --
not stainless, but pitted, rusted,
worn from years of decadence
aged as only time can.

Your step, graceful but intent
upon slashing as you walk
your razor edged sexuality
poised, turgid, ready for evisceration.
But, beyond the walk,
your face, your eyes -- timeless
doubled in almost mirrored vision
the light and deepest shadow
captured in mid-form blur
as you rapidly change
with an imperceptible speed.
Your abstraction captured
in the master's eye: for
who can know you, but he.