A Scorpio

Crush!

Silence

Sitting for hours, on the wet grass,

I was looking at the yellow butterfly -

Flying from flower to flower,

Amused by the droplets, glistening on the tip of the grass.

It was a Friday afternoon!

I was waiting for you.

I mean, your touch.

The way you entangle your fingers between mine.

The way you tap my lips and look at my eyes.

I knew you would come soon!

I was staring at the stone,

With your name engraved.

Hoping... it brings our love to life.

Hoping... it heals our wounds.

I admit I live in a cocoon!

I looked up to the dark, nimbus cloud,

I was anticipating your arrival.

You came as a tempest with a lash of rain.

You kissed my lips and we were drenched.

I know, this silence is a boon!

Numbed!

I am often numbed by nature.

So many sounds, so many visions, so many colours indeed!

Oh, wait! These are not the terms of nature.

These weren’t given.

But, we created it…

Like we created the barriers, the boundaries, the fences, the lines.

Like we created the war-zones, the weapons, the woes, the wounds.

I am often humbled by the depth of the oceans.

The uncanny gaze of the blue sky

Often renders me speechless.

Oh, wait! Are they meant to be what we call them?

Are they the ocean, the sea or the sky?

Yeah, we named them…

Like we named our beliefs, our bodies, our religions, our sexes.

I am often numbed at the thought of uttering a word

When I realize that it will make no sense to the butterfly sitting on my finger.

I am often numbed by my ignorance

When I realize my intellect fails

To comprehend the philosophy behind the barks of my dog.

Nature, and of course life, is supposed to be a flow, I guess.

But, we are caught in the loops of the words

That we invented...

Like we invented the ideas of power, possession, and property.

Like we invented the ideas of mine, ours and theirs.

The Woman… I am

I am the body,

That’s been constructed and deconstructed

Hundreds and thousands of time.

The curve on my chest

Is an awe-striking creation,

Often provoking artists

To appropriate me as an art.

The dip in my waist

Is a matter of examination,

Often providing litterateurs

With premises to debate.

The movement of my arse

When I walk,

Ignites imagination.

The flow of my hair

When it flies,

Fuels desires.

I am often a lump of flesh

Without life.

Invoking curiosity to be touched.

The screams of my pain

When violated,

Validate my presence.

The scars on my skin

When burnt,

Prove my existence.

Through fire and the rain,

Through violence and the pain,

I harness my prowess.

I rise with a soul

That’s untouched.

I rise with a mind

That thrives.

The homogenous time awaits my ingenuity.

And I rise

As I was, I am and I will be.