For her age, not
a single sign of wear and tear
Not even in the
manner that she hurries down the road,
Leaving fine
trails behind, on two sides
Trails she would
never tarry to admire
One after the
other, her never-ending shapeless body pours forth
Heralded by
the everyday brushes with conflicts
and contrasts:
A thoughtless
word, a lice-infested action, a hushed pungent thoughts.
A little drop to each drop before that drop; merges
Forms and
snakes downward
We only need to sight heron someone else's to make a huge
swallow of spittle.
Her scents, although
you couldn't put a taste name to,
curries us in.
Carried on the
strong river currents
of someone else's
By
every notes and
keystrokes
To
every sense and sense buds,
naked and sheathed
Hitting the
spots spot on, cornering us.
Her pulses are hard
and thorough
Enough to
evoke same response: a thorough and hard pulse
Were you to
attempt to soothe those of someone else's
She would ambush you into opening your
own source for someone
else's
For her
hands reaches into your core,
fondling it
Her legs
sat tentacled somewhere between
a shared grief
Her voice
is bound in notes and chords not bound by any known notes and chords
She is
water we hardly want to see flow,
someone else's.
She is a
river no one wants to put a paddle to
A river
one only wants to dam; of
blood and non-bloods
Those
of now to travails of years that have aged on
Someone else's
tears
Reminds us
why we are humans,
