She prides in the robe of innocence
Hanging down voluptuous frames
That pokes at virility
But to remain veiled
Her immortal task
For in such mask
Lies the masquerade’s pride

She the prey of distant poachers
That prowls the forest
Partitioned among themselves like coat of colours
In morbid curiousity they lust
For several moons they were lost
Fizzled in the African sun
Their treasure, her veiled unclothedness

For when they found her
Wrapped in glaring innocence
A gift of lust to present
coated in colours of love
for what is love?
and what maketh lust?
the soul is the essence
the presence gratifies that sense

And with that coital resolution
once advanced to a climax
with bellows of passion
began as a glow so tender,
he treads the intricate
devoid of delicate desires
with un-bearing clamouring
rather spurred by sinful sense
he sends forth liquid mortals
leaving the ‘man below’ limb
exorcised of his emotional frailty
a glimmer in his eyes

They left us…………….
their morbid curiosity gratified
but in our heart, a wound
the African sun, never can heal