Her-IT-Age

Down the choking lane, an entreaty did she make

To allow her age with grace, for her first creator’s sake.

‘My men have long gone – one bred me, the other had me as his bride,

This countenance of a widow moves many for a slovenly ride.

O Man! Thou hath made me with thy passion

Talk of my beauty with many a panegyric and thoughtful elation.

What of that glory? Where that compassion now?’

Palely, does she lie all lost in the bustling glare

Tossed, transformed, recaptured for each one’s share.

The lungs are ablaze, the soot from the distant land

Darken her charm and beauty

Yet not one amongst her ‘lovers’ did raise a benign hand.

After all, it’s all about claiming rights without any duty.

‘My powdered cheek is but a hardened cake

Of anguish, pain and thy smooth conspiracy, making me rake

My concrete brain to think of ways to help sustain

In thy world iridescent with such mysterious stain.

‘Come, caress once more my tempting curves

Arouse me in action and drink from my nerves.

Else, I pray thee, leave me in this peaceful noise

Till I’m reduced to debris – to thy shame and my poise.’

Hapless, she pleads for life;

‘Cause it is beyond her to put up any strife,

In your world and mine, she knows something –

There’s a price for everything and value for nothing!