I suppose it’s meant to be;
a honeyed voice both seductive and whispery
seeking to embellish the truth
with its own ideas,
as though music, as though ebony sky
trailing fingertips across my skin,
had I known the coming decade could
bring me this,
would forsake all thought of linking arms
with dolor— it’s such a silly thing to do
when we can easily walk barefoot
on the concrete,
all the while feeling the heat escape,
but oh, I realize now that I couldn’t have known.
Like a lustful release drenched in dark sin
prohibited to a woman choosing to pen them
down, why so?
Are we not human?
Are we not bound to feel what eligible men
of the society feel merely on whim?
My heart seethes as the grey ocean
knowing this to be the norm;
read this as many times as you need to,
if we have to beg
we are simply wasting our time,
I say savor each morsel,
read poetry of the soul wrapped in dark
and seize hold of your fate if need be—
listen to the clamour of centuries,
and tell me,
what good comes out of caging melodies?
My lips no longer quiver with the deep secret of him.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Chosen words: Quiver, honeyed, seethe, embellish, clamour.
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Posted for Poetics: The Poet’s Store House @dVerse Poets Pub