You love like the seasons…
The spring in your step renewed me
Your summer lips subdued me
You weakened my limbs and I did fall
But your touch foretold winter after all.
And you left – for what? To recycle a lie,
To bring forth new flowers just to let them die.
You crushed me like grapes
when you kissed her in the vineyard…
Don’t you remember how our bond was fermented
by our nightly trysts in the cellar?
You grew on me,
Consuming my sugar
Only to leave me bitter and drained,
Withdrawing your lips from me too soon,
Now I linger here like aftertaste,
Dissipating in life’s spittoon.
She was by a window in the library,
Brown eyes turned golden in light,
A pencil-chewing, hybridized sight,
Eyes glassy from the trance of reading,
He approaches, she, unheeding.
He says hello and offers to refill her coffee cup,
She empties his will with her strange eyes, so sunny side up.
He prepared her heart:
Marinated in her perspective
Thawed her icy reservations
Covered her in an honest heat,
Rising, until she was complete right through.
She felt like a flavorful cynosure under the sprinkle of stars above,
She finally, unendingly wanted a taste of his love.
She was in love with the man made out of sand
But she lived in water, nestled in the waves
Stubborn, she took him for herself, held him close
In seconds, he fell away from her body
Leaving mocking impressions on her skin that said ‘you never had me’…
Frantic now, she gathered as much of him as she could in her hands
But he was gone, seeping through her fingers into a vast ocean
She sat by the shore and mourned for the loss of him, more painful than before.
Words could not save her this time.
There were no paper boats and pen oars to sail her to the safe corners of her mind.
She had inhaled him too deeply,
Until his breath had formed lips in every pore on her skin.
She did not know how to end him
Or where to begin.
Words could not save her.
She had inhaled him too deeply
Until his breath had formed lips in every pore on her skin,
Whispers, hypnotic and polyphonic,
Effects which are soporific.
She closes her eyes and tries to quiet herself
But there are too many voices,
She falls asleep in defense
And woke up seeking a river.
There were no paper boats and pen oars sailing her to the safe corners of her mind.
This journey was different.
She felt the pull of her bloodline, urging, go to the water source.
She let the blue-green currents sweep her away … they said, be reborn.
As her head emerged from the water,
she woke up from the dream,
Remembering the scene, with women cheering Omowale. Omowale. Omowale.
Her true true self is like a flash of prismatic light –
On the edge of glassed minds, illuminating.
Yet she remains invisible, even when bared to naked eyes.
Tired, she folds her faded reality neatly into a corner,
watches the surreal become solid way of life.
Time and time again
They prove that people like her are in vain.
She resigns, surrenders her essence to the dust.
A joyless peace consumes her,
She understands, now, why she was demeaned.
True beauty is external for external beauty is rewarded and seen,
A vanity that is never in vain.