HUMBLE

By Abena The Village Girl

Humble
 

 

Humble was the whore they called her, held her left her on the floor

Humble was the door when opened itself to reveal the moor

Humble was her pain, gathered belongings, overtook the shame

She left that night whilst all in death began a journey far from West

 

She remembered chilly summers, hands that held her breasts then shot her bullets,

Then her hands would grab his stick, she tried to break, but no pitch

Entry not forced, but always felt rippling,

Her eggs felt scrambled, her uterus a kitchen,

Men were babies always tugging at her nipples,

Her sweet nectar wasted, her honey never tasted

 

The darkness of the night she found accommodated her sight

No ports of air or ship, yet her path her mind equipped

Her buttocks round despite the pounds, her two lips stretched like Suri

She never understood beauty, she only knew of duty

 

Humble was the whore when she arrived this early morn,

Humble were the moors, they fed her clothed her then they fed her more

Humble was this place, the darkness reigned even through the scorching sun

Yet, this sun had no chills, a heaven hidden in the hills