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.