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| Picture courtesy: David Sokoh |
bringing alive at touch,
the fresh nip of wind swims through the bare neck,
the dainty hair, along the skin ablaze
cringes and bumps along the follicle.
A rush of blood reminds of the tenderness I wear,
beneath lies a crumpled, worn, and withered, much smeared child
unmoved, un-clued, betrothed to a funeral pyre,
disenchanted to the lovers muse
to the musk of sweat beneath my own breasts
I need a holy chant,
to bring me to the former painted face,
the acceptable picture of a chaste saint.
let me not feel alive, my pride aside I pray
for to live means to sin
at suncrests and dusks alike
awakening me deep inside
a nip of wind, your touch alike
unrests my shameful soul unaware
