I have a lot of them pretty clothes;
Short,long or medium skirts.
Shabby,decent or just mere blouses.
Short,long or medium dresses.
But none can compare to my favorite little black dress.

Its neither too short,nor too long.
And I cannot even classify it to be medium.
Its entire length is knitted in black
As it has stitched in white,
A belt that covers the waist.
Its not a very big belt though,
Too little actually.
But I love my favorite little black dress.

It is not because I can wear it to any occasion that I love it;
I can wear it to dinner,
And yet be comfortable enough to select even my favorite musozya to be my meal.
I can dance for the whole night when in it.
I can meet even the scariest of inlaws in it,
And shake the hands of the most respectable people while having its belt clenching my waist.
My favorite little black dress.
I just love it

And it is not because I got my first kiss in it.
Nor is it because I had just taken it off,
When my lover devoured my flesh and took my innocence with him that night.
Leaving my decency to cling only to my skin,
As if it is on my favorite little black dress.

I kicked a ball in it,
As the boys whaled 'goale! Goale! Goale'
Thinking that since I had a dress for a garment,
Then the goal,I would surely miss.
And yet I didn't.
In my favorite little black dress.

That night when I danced with him,
I wore it.
I could tell my father too,
Appreciated how lovely it made me look on this day,
As he led me to the dance floor,
And yet;
I wasn't even the bride.
My favorite little black dress.

dark hollow orbs
are crossed by the simoom of ignorance
The ears are not enough
And where there is neither day nor night ..
they Creepingly
Fumble with sharp rock heads
To draw a map in touch memory.
Great horn laments
So they point their ears towards the sky ...
The lovebird flies, running away, breaking leagues of flame like a black arrow
To pollute the purity of sadness
orbs sign without no goale
Confusion pours out of the sweat of sins
and horn laments
Behind the crowds
There are mountains of skulls
And in front of them the darkness of their orbs
And above them the horn groans
And below them are Fangs of rocks like butcher knives.
creeping slowly
Ants overtake them
Lizards, spiders and birds
And the monsters prey on the last of them..and keep howling and besiege them ...
Sometimes they leave them to propagate
Desert hurricanes accumulate sand particles inside their orbs..
They wipe it off with their swollen fingers.
it comes out with some blood, mucus and pus.
and worms that grow in the hollow of exhausted bodies..
They are still productive despite everything ...
Still