• hannaabideen 28w


    She flaunted her body and got out of the bed
    Anklets were a rhythm to her long untied hair
    She sipped a hot tea and lowered the glass tumbler.

    She zipped the blue blouse and looked at the mirror
    And applied crimson lipstick on her thin pale lips
    She sighed at the futile dreams and smiles.

    If she is a poet
    She would pour despair
    On a piece of brown paper.

    If she is an artist
    She would sew a lament in verse
    On the blank canvas of the universe.

    She is neither a poet nor an artist
    Attempting to rub hues of dark past,
    Who was seized by a beast to satisfy his lust.

    She flew from the pervasive black ashes
    To step out of nakedness
    Still carries the curses of her villagers.

    They labelled her a prostitute
    Lady silhouette behind the door with mournful eyes
    Concealed tears trickled from the corners of eyes.

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