Sense of honour
is a fry cry from you .
I’d rather be your plea
to infinity
beyond your sight
of innocent blood .
Body art -
my tongue
on your human canvas ,
a masterpiece
by artist
with an eye for the quirky ,
quirky one with a craze
to hatred.
An artist
whose postscript
merges with
your cells
of self destruction.

She is multi-faceted.
She is not a wallpaper.
If she could , she would,
but still,
she is a landscape.
Winks at him,
then leaves,
kisses another,
her intentions don’t comply,
creates as if they are crafts.
Voo-doo dolls
with prejudiced faith .
She is a princess
of all them towers.
She is a queen
of undisturbed motion
and vibrant colours .
Her attention span
is longer than her eyelashes
and lasts more than
your miserable
loving.