A stone's life

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