Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal,
caramel strong un-clad lady,
yet at touch so “douce” and glued
whilst leaning out
from a window
slender rainy on a balcony too urban
pane
And eyes at digital art
Spin a confession
Of how the watered petals of flowers there
do not explain
The origin or calling of the rain
And that its every end or beginning
In her unbetrayal made swayed
Has actually
since always
there
been taking
its rightful place.
The world in that fact
does not have,
find
nor
make relay, sense.
Someone right on the other side’s
staircase stroll
Would extract their own core
by extending through their ribs own
her beloving so longing and old
that one at last will find it
possessing a too hurtful call.
Head lolled.
Dew owned.
Hereby a painting
The Rain gave me
As my new rightful face.
They will hold it forevermore
As their subject yet bearer.
The chosen laid and left there
