Ultraviolent Poem by Nancy Ames

Medieval maidens military,
as morning masks the stars,
stand like sad soldiers, stationary,
or the minions of Mars.

Distant damsels do not dare
display a splash of splendour,
sisters of the solemn stare,
too tearful, tense and tender.

Whispers widen windows who
demurely are disguising
glad golden glances almost too
seductive and surprising.

Like laughing lilacs, they long to
fly far above the flowers,
belatedly belonging to
some of the super-powers.