Mistress

Poetry and love  like the rustling of wind

with an inconsistent heartbeat tempi

 

To the weave and imperfection of my

mistress, dark and twisted like root

 

Imperfection of her perfection;

a wagon of jargon is hers

 

Her lips bloody in hue

 

Her voice orchestrated in-tune to

the symphony of a phantom

 

 

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Myrrh

Not a church
girl she was
secular.

My poetry is
a metaphor for
the unknown.
Known to
none but me.

Your heart beats
out of bounds infinitely.
Infidelity taunts me.

I see men slamming
her, an’ taking her
to the sewer.

Out goes the
braids, in comes
the weave.

My dignity
is my pride.

It’s hurts
but I never
show.

But I bring
her home for
extra
candle-loving,
because
she’s far
from the usual.

© Dotun Gb | Poems