Listening to lyrics from the devils scriptures,
His stench awakening the bitter memory,
His scent rearranging my thoughts,
scattering my mind.
That desire tormented by that memory.
Of my unrehearsed childhood.
My recycled childhood,
Of the memories…
Messing my breeks; utter wetness!
Then mandatory garden walks,
Smooth, wealthy hands… slithering,
Then the cock crow,
In between my limbs for a second cut,
Hard… bloody veins…
On sildenafil dose,
Rapturing that comfort into pleasured pain, Straining my nerve endings and muscles,
Igniting a dèjá vu
That time heals, is a scam.
That memory just fades away!
Weaving make up, warmth, love, smile…
For the whole world on their faces, generously.
To cover the hopelessness, the struggle… Contemplating what should be,
Forgetting what is.
But when it was time for her to pick her fruits, From the tree watered with tears,
They said she is a woman…
But woman is human first…
Then the tree grew so long,
she could no longer pick them,
Only strained hardened fingers and palms.
She keeps her eyes amid hope.
High as she watches them over ripe,
At her stance, from the foot of the tree…
Her neck strains: she eargerly watches.
Tired of waiting… and falls!
So ripe, it falls into her ever open palms,
feels the scent,
But her life trails off,
as she gasp for breath,
to stay and eat,
at least one last overripen one,
She cannot eat no more,
because
It’s time!
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