Burnt desires, burnt dreams.
Yes, she once had a dream,
Someday she’d catwalk down a golden carpet,
Pose to colourful paparazzo,
Sign beautiful autographs,
and join the league of super models.
Straight legs, killer curves, nice hips, sexy lips.
She’s got them all.
Oh yeah, she’s got the moves too.
It was a big future, a big dream,
Every girl’s dream.
But then came the agony of reality’s irony
No one knows tomorrow.
The one thing that defiles humanity.
Else, she would’ve missed that flight.
The threshold of her fateful plight.
Some say life in Africa is like living next door to hell.
But her case was different.
She was aloft, cruising the smiling clouds.
just few steps below heaven’s gate.
she looked through the window,
her jaw droped
few inches away from the floating aircraft,
she beheld a flamboyant panorama of crystal spirals of clouds,
juxtaposed like a mixture of immaculate white wools
and pure turquoises of blue corals, and cheerful light.
she could smell the glistening clouds from the window,
some part of her felt like jumping off the plane,
for a feel, and a real taste if possible,
of the alluring clouds.
the sight transported her into heaven,
nothing else mattered to her at that moment…
except the sudden wobbly voice of the local pilot.
beneath the voice,
the pilot shudders like a rusted clockwork.
“ladies and gentlemen,
please say your last prayers.”
alas! Her little party was over.
the pilot was no comedian.
the old man sitting next to her began his last prayers
the woman sitting opposite was already casting and binding many demons.
the bearded long-man behind her was praying too.
the plane began to stall,
losing altitude upon altitude.
hope became deaf to all prayers.
death slowly crept closer.
despair wooed her to slumber,
and fear gripped her eye lids to nothingness.
Then she awoke in a hospital.
Wrapped like an Egyptian mummy.
Burnt beyond recognition.
Everything once colourful
burnt, forgotten, faded with the crash.
And so it happened.
Everything got burnt.
Everything faded with crash smokes.
Faraway to gloomy clouds.
But one thing was left behind
Her true beauty.
Invaluable pulchritude of talent, passion and strong will.
Mine with her, was love at first sight
as she stood before the judges
An American idol
I crowned her my very own idol
I love her, neither for her sonority nor for empathy.
But for true appreciation of Aphrodite.
She may be burnt, defaced, and redecorated.
She remains a symbol of true beauty.
An icon of passion, talents, and cherished dreams.
She remains intact, raging, and pacing for her destination.
If she can, thus this far,
what then is my excuse?