Cold nights, dark as the flower over your soul.
You call it a body; I find a warm shelter against life adversities.
Wrap your arms around my frailty while my head rests on
your temple—
The worship is pleasing. I bow into three doors of your being.
Let me chant these prayers ‘fore the moon disappears,
Into your bossom.
Till I cave these half-moons within your pink-colored altar,
Stretch them for my obeisance on the line of your imaginations—
Will you think of me between offerings of sweat and tears?
Will you hearken to the knocks, pleading for your voice to be raised?

I pray,
as my seed offering gets planted on your moistness,
To grow emotions.



Image by Tina H via Flickr

About the Author:

Portrait - IkwuagwuUdochukwu writes from Ibadan. He has written for notable contemporary and literary blogs including AfricanWriter, TheNakedConvos, SankofaMag, TheSarcasticCentre amongst others.