The hair is all spiraled up and soft
with the ends loose,
Burned of a fire black, but still
exists as the creamy mass of delicacy.
Your smile is a carved wet symphony
A sound in silence, with eyelashes the color of offsprings of dark.
The skin bloom of a pink becomes your second skin,over the fair white,
Sculpting your body, caressing and holding
Your bosoms and curves firmly in a strap of color known
Every curve traced melodiously,
The smile can make anyone forget the touch of all soft curves below the neck and beyond.
But I am a poet, not like the rest of them,
I would go down below, to live all
with my same bare hands with which i write.
Because they have never learned to lie.
© Shashank Bhardwaj