Return To The Sender…

This smile,
Is not warm,
Is not genuine,
And does not reach the eyes,
Return it to the sender…

These eyes,
Are cold,
Are not human,
Are inscrutable,
Return them to the sender…

The embrace,
Is unsettling,
The intimacy,
Is missing in the touch,
These all,
Please return them to the sender…

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The Morning After

Dawn breaks gently,
Softly kissing away the vestiges of last night,
With a calm gesture of a glad light.
Morning creeps slowly upon the two still body forms,
Still lying luxuriously on the bed,
And teases destiny with pregnant promises.
Finally,
The sun claims her rightful place,
As the queen and centre of life,
And proceeds to drench longing souls,
With her warm and dear shine.
It is morning again,
The morning after…

The morning after,
Finds the two spirits still enveloped,
In an eternal embrace of a blissful existence.
Mystic smiles,
Etches peace and contentment,
Across their countenances.
What a beholding occurrence.
She pulls him closer to her naked and nubile breasts,
Snuggling closer to him with unabashed gay,
She deeply breathes in his raw masculine scents.
And lets his sinewy form enclose, claim and consume her inner most longings,
With such a ravenous intent…

He opens his eyes,
And his gaze gladly falls upon her face,
He relishes the sleeping beauty with a certain gusto,
Letting the breathtaking soft beauty,
Sweep him away into the ether world.
She flutters open her eyes and their gazes lock tight.
Last night’s events slowly play out before them…
As evidenced by the morning after…

They recall with certain tenderness,
The exploration of the vast valleys,
Gardens and mountains they had traveled together last night.
They had played hide and seek amongst the endless groves and leas,
They had lain down by the brook side,
As the brook quietly wormed her way downstream,
And he had dipped his finger deep into its welcoming waters,
And had drunk from it’s banks to his fill.
The water of life.
She had held on to the taught and strong trunk of his essence,
Willing it to claim her essential essence in a sweet savour,
While she had quivered with an urgent need.
She desperately wanted the void deep inside of her filled with life.
His life.
And no one else.

The moment was upon them.
The moment of sheer truth.
The moment of no return.
The moment of sweet surrender.
And each had willingly surrendered to each others throbbing will.
Waves upon waves of tumultuous ecstasy and intense feeling,
Had swept them to places they have never been there before.
They felt lighter and soared high upon the crest of the sweet wave,
They climbed higher and higher with each thrust of the moment and movement,
And when they finally reached the summit of the proud mountain,
They had  both crushed down together and collapsed in a heap of pure sweetness.
Every pore in her being opened up and received him in totality,
And felt him flow into the very inner sanctum of her soul, her spirit.
Thick, hot and vital.
What a virility he possessed.
They were one,
In being,
In mind,
In soul,
In spirit.
She knew very well,
No one would ever be able take  her to that place,
Apart from him,
And the morning after confirmed this salient truth,
For she could see the need in his eyes again,
And she could feel him stir into life again…
As she lay down in his wide chest,
In an easy languor,
Ready to welcome him again,
Deep into her very being,
In the morning after..

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

Black Chroma

What ails you black hue?

For wherever a mortal sets foot forth,

You never cease to blight her path with a devastating precision.

You are an apparition, a mist in a gist of a single moment.

You’re an enigma who brutally refuses a description,

And your appellation is not easy to comprehend.

You are the dark angel,

Shimmering and simmering in your laconic chromatic black.

 

Colour black you are some mystery in which you cloak yourself in,

And peeling the layers of lies off you is a Herculean task.

You’re a silhouette of beings in darkness,

And whom you effortlessly sip life from mercilessly.

Yet in your mystery, you’re regal, and we bow in awe.

You inspire fear and intrigue.

Your wearer is a marked man. Your host is a marked woman.

For the black art and occult consult you.

You’re Gothic, chasing the shadows of life masked in a death promise.

 

You sing a dire dirge in a funeral,

And mourners must mourn in black.

Subdued in dark somber tones and moods,

The living are stifled of their right to leave or live.

The things you hide in your darkness are momentous.

In your unwarranted ornate fiesta of doom, we are but helpless jetsams

Of your unkind gesture in mocking dear life.

You beckon with a languid hand,

A flight to oblivion..

 

In the stillness of the night, you and the willing darkness

Engage in an obscene dance of intimate lovers,

Whose heart’s contents and dark desires they are familiar with.

In the night, they play lucid games of deceit and the owl is the umpire in this empire.

In the darkness, witches, thieves, murderers, villains and vampires find refuge,

She embraces them in an earnest hug of sure death.

The moon is a shy nymph, undecided lass bearing the gift of dark light

Who lie, conquered by the long shadows of tempests.

Oh Black hue, your symbolism is rich.

What hails you black hue?

© Ayoub Mzee 2012

A Subterfuge.

Stumbling in a certain labyrinth of muttered thoughts,
A belle quips some love chimes.
Tapered feelings bluster cajoled agendas.
Wisps of spent verve surreptitiously eye a need.
Nymph’s lucid eyes invite a lost and loaned desire.
To mount this pedestal she promises.
A valley wet with good seed to harvest for future generations is the idyllic
conversation she whispers in an eager ear.
Flaring ambition to conquer a relentless soul is a just stipend paid.
A veil hinders beguiled touch of purchased intimacy.
She refuses.
Simmering hunger sears sturdy loins.
A need is susceptible to wicked flirts.
Longing is ubiquitous and love is scarce and scared.
An acquitance salvages a dilapidated heart.
She steals the pain in debauchery.
It is her prerogative.
Inchoate ire humbles an irate id.
See the vaunted feminine wiles?
How do a soul extricate itself from a subterfuge likes this?

© copyright 2012 Ayoub Mzee