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Thoughts about a Woman

Her harsh red lips, moist with blood,
Trembled in trauma, while her breasts;
Like disoriented tombs, hung
lifeless and battered, they laid to rest
all youthful vigor and zest.

Men used to hunt her (ferociously),
Wrecking the erotic physique,
Murdering her identity,
Each night she was killed,
Each morning she resurrected,
Though without her will.

I ran my hands along her nudity,
Her robe was kept beside,
Fresh because she seldom wore it,
She closed her eyes, waiting,
But no sensual motifs rose,
I saw a portrait waiting to be made,
A poem waiting to be written!
 
She breathed and slept in my arms,
Her eyes drifting away into a dream,
Maybe for the first time.

Comments

  1. Claudia23 March 2014 at 02:21

    it is good that you held her and let her sleep and dream... sounds like a rough life of being used... she will appreciate a sensitive portrait and poem...

    ReplyDelete
  2. Mary23 March 2014 at 04:03

    Oh my, what a vivid portrait. I am saddened for her difficult life of. Ring used and a used. She deserves a night of restful dreams....and many more.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Sumana Roy23 March 2014 at 04:49

    nice to see that she got a fresh lease of life and breathed...

    ReplyDelete
  4. Brian Miller23 March 2014 at 05:08

    when someone else sees what is inside us, it allows us to dream for sure...it has made her feel alive, perhaps for the first time and see herself as something greater...

    ReplyDelete
  5. NataĊĦek23 March 2014 at 05:52

    to be seen, to start breathing for the first time... beautiful.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Marcoantonio Arellano (Nene)23 March 2014 at 06:45

    enjoyed very much this piece. shows your inner empathetic side while giving a woman a space of humanity in lieu of a primal patriarchal world.

    gracias

    ReplyDelete
  7. Sherry Blue Sky23 March 2014 at 11:34

    It sounds lovely and safe fort her, being held as she slept. Beautiful, Anand.

    ReplyDelete
  8. ZQ23 March 2014 at 13:19

    Wonderfully written!
    ZQ

    ReplyDelete
  9. Susan23 March 2014 at 13:38

    Still trying to picture those breasts ... perhaps the narrator is the earth, in whose arms is rest?

    ReplyDelete

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