NWATU'S CONFESSION - 3

I’m at it again; encore, again. Still me and my always cagey confessions; Still constantly bountiful, like July rain; Still an admix of countless emotions. It’s still my life with the XY-chromosomed figures Yes, of the ones shaped like the hourglass. It’s about our lives together, and its rigours. Though now of a damsel of another class…. Emotionally was at my lowest ebb; as high as the least known syncline. Was like an arachnid outside its web; a bald man with no cap living on the Line I was a swordless, kimonoless samurai; an eunuch playing pipe in the pillow world. Lost my skateboard when the tide’s still high; a Cicero without his spoken word. I sought to fill this loss, this hiatus Par l’apprendre de la langue française. And it was in its sounds in my auditory meatus, that we collided; two runners in a haze. And when the haze cleared, I saw that you were a prized Picasso on display. Viewed in desirous awe by the young art major, who defies the elements to your stand, everyday. The Art professor regards you with a sigh, as he contemplates you all the time. ‘cos newer works are never, in standards, high. Of a truth, all merit same label – artistic crime. The collector’s eyes see you as mere digits. Or at best, a single colour – monochronic green. For your value, he perceives no upper limits to the number of Benjies – with their backs green. And you mean the world to the good ole Pablo. That’s why he sleeps less often … Any poacher of yours, he’ll definitely blow … Keeps a loaded revolver, by his side, in the coffin. Your boldness is simply Meg Thatcher; you can put your foot down on the ground. And your pinky royalty – Cleopatra; you deserve our diadem in its every pound. Your culinary skills give me chills; Evokes feelings for my mum, Francisca. You run the home with Usain Bolt skills. And that, no contingency, can ever mar. You’re an Einstein on and off the book; without the sticking tongue and the bushy hair. For an answer, you always know where to look; ‘cos your smartness is always brought to bare… Tyra Banks in her prime; that’s your frame; makes me blush to death over my apple body. You’re gorgeous; Kim Kardashian’s the name; elicit cat calls from any mouth-owning body. You emulate Mother Theresa in kindness; the type that’s selfless, straight from the heart. And Francisca, again, is your beacon in motherliness; ‘cos, for me, she had excellently played that part. Would this third confession be, of its type, the last? Or would I fais la confession de la quatrième numero? Would what we have now ever last? Would a multi-stage cake’s top contain we duo? Would we, without brakes, ride this vélo? Jump the gun; get sent off after some false starts? Would we rather move with caution, be mellow? And never shatter and splatter each other’s hearts? Would you wear white and I wear black? Would we grace the runway of the aisle? Would we perpetually get each other’s back? Or is this a flash in the pan, just for the while? Risks, uncertainties and forecasts are many stock in trade But for the reservoir of the heart, I’m at sea. I just pray that ours be a long-term trade That would last for long; eternity, maybe. Mar-2010