The Tattooed Lady

This area is not a wall, 
Though it is expansive 
Like the Great Plains.
In some elder eyes
She was seen as a man canvas,
A walking canvas, therefore unfeminine.
Her inkyness was a shock, alien to the eye,
To the socket and its seven bones.

The walking canvas 
Strolled on regardless unknowing, uncaring.
To her they were invisible,
To her their opinion inert.
The colour of her skin drew their frowns.

Not by its pigment
But because of its pigments.
Their design aproval
Was mismatched by the Art.
She carried the air of a daisy.

They, carried that of the unwittingly entrenched.
This generation had no need
Of a Judge or a Jury.
The case is proven.

Women should not take the place of street art.
The fairer sex is no place for graffiti.

©2018 Christopher Thompson


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