The Naked Human…

I don’t understand,

Why people are so afraid,

Of the naked human form.

They see shame,

Guilt,

Lust,

Embroidered on the skin,

Like a flimsy excuse of a coverlet.

Since when,

Clothes have been only known to profess,

Pride,

Dignity,

And virtue?

You can be as naked,

As the day you were born,

And still exude,

Honour,

Beauty,

And an enchanting mixture of,

Recklessness and sagacity.

When I look at your stark body,

I see a film of freckles,

Where the sun might have kissed your skin.

I see your bony knees;

They have not only walked you through the maze of life,

But have also, bowed down to the ground,

When you have given up and prayed.

Yes,

I can make out the jagged lines of your tiny scars,

Silent documentations of all the times you have fallen down,

And still, risen up.

I don’t see perfection,

When I scrutinize your bare frame.

It would be a pity,

If you were to be perfect!

The continuous undulations of air in your stomach,

The almost imperceptible motion of your shoulders,

As you take a deep breath:

Only betray your stubborn intent to live,

Come what may.

There’s no artifice in your raised head,

With your chin up.

As I gaze at the violent attempt,

Of your trembling lips,

To curve into a smile,

I envision a child-like vulnerability, sure,

But also, a spark of bravery.

Your clenched fists are not enough,

To suppress the fighter in you.

Why then,

Would I want to hide,

All the majesty of your naked glory?

I suppose,

We, as humans,

Do not hide ourselves,

Behind innumerable drapes of cloth,

To hide our misguided sense of shame.

We do it,

To protect others from being blinded,

By our undisguised magnificence.

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