Hair

Long-haired girls dressed up as Pisces
Buoyant maidens stagger seas far from their native shores
Black, raven, and blonde,
The mystic seams of laughter 
Virginal landers on so cold a platform
Become filtered by Scotland, where red is the rule
Black, raven, and blonde are sent to brothels
"Exotic misconduct", the euphemism of their rebuttal
As well as their appeal
Fiona, Fiona, the undressed dame running on snow
From graveyard to kindergarten
And vice versa, just for the chills of winter touch
Driven insane as tribute to the artistry of contrasts
Ocular gray and fire, the substance of her madness...
Fiona, I am the raven girl, let that be
A complement to white instead of crimson
Allow me to be my hair, and not my gender
I never chose to begin inside this absence
Honing its own survival,
My addiction to not being seen
Do not deliver me to all those armies grinning downstairs
To conquerors denying their sores the proper medication
Alexander and Charlemagne, the Prince of Aragon,
Wearing trim continental hats,
While the piano is played by a topless Creole
She looks tired, though not particularly hurt
Did she fight being chosen?
Will I fight wanting it?
I am afraid to land on no apologies required
I am afraid of Scotland, it's so wild.