The colour of her Kohl uncertain, she flips the pages of the magazines.
No hint, no clues, no advice. Disguised as the voice of reason:
She paints her eyes to burnt orange to match her dark complexion,
She wears a flowery gown still in fashion.
She arrives at the party, surveying the naked eyes staring
At the starry night.
She wrecks her brains about an ill-advice of staring at the stars with
Her mind is blank. Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore?
All the females are in stripy gowns. The invitation said flowery gowns.
Is this a postmodern take to flowery fashion?
The stripes are hurting her vision.
Where is she?
Why are all the familiar faces in stripes and not flowers?
The loud music plays familiar tunes: Bob Marley, the Doors
She undulates to the music; ripples of her hem.
Though this enigma; is niggling her.
She strikes a conversation with a handsome youth. He admires her Kohl.
(Burnt orange and all.) Pays a complement about her rose tinted complexion
She blushes even more. Though the conundrum is still unresolved.
She puts her brave face and asks!
"The flowers are hidden behind the stripes." He answers casually
No touch of irony.
“How?” she demands to know?
"Simple," he answers, "Dresses are multi layered"
She feels like a fool.. She reproaches to the question of lack Kohl.
"No one cares to hide their eyes no more."The youth says, "I like a woman in Kohl."