Writing this, unashamed,
may be quite lame;
I will take this blade
so I get not the tame.
Neatly, she gazed-
with words hazy-
at nothing same
as was I eight.
Closely, lips loosed
as hips felt like whips
the skin of a fair victim
in sweet touches of pain.
She chiseled her oily
charm on what spoke:
“Let me share me you”
Those words ushered us.
Poemm by Abuh Monday Eneojo
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