I’m a Whore..

The hustle of gloomy breeze
Was as if summer was “peeling off my skin”
Enjoying my nakedness,
It must have caressed every organs,
(Especially those void,
where it enjoyed touching me most),
Trying to arouse me,
But it didn’t know,
It didn’t have to arouse a whore,
Before every rain,
Summer enjoyed me watching naked and pale,
Wounded and fragile,
And when the rain slowly dripped,
I let it fuck myself
And shouted in triumph
That I’m a whore;
In the sunny October,
I saw lovers morphing with the slow wind,
Holding each other’s hands and tongues,
And I wished, I was any of them,
I watched them making love,
Beneath the alder’s shade,
And felt that I was one of them,
Making love to the girl,
Making love to the boy,
Or to both,
Or to none,
And murmured in regret after orgasm,
That I’m a whore;
It was a Sunday night,
When I slept in my hammock,
To take a siesta,
But moreover out of torpor of August,
I saw some strange birds,
Talking in human voices,
They talked about their life,
About 1500 years ago,
They talked about their soul,
They talked about falling in love
For the first time,
And they talked about falling asleep in cuddle,
For the first time,
They talked about human,
They talked about death,
They talked about heaven,
They talked about hell,
Then they laughed,
And they smiled,
And ended up making love,
I watched them in their
Uttermost ecstasy,
Oblivion of my own orgasm,
They chirped for a long time,
And I cried for a long time,
That I’m a whore,
And wished for August to vanish from my life;
It was Wednesday,
When all curlews were about to migrate,
A stark loneliness had filled my heart,
I wished I could also migrate with curlews,
Flying above the seas and shores,
Barren deserts and dense forests,
Making love with curlews,
Whoever agreed to sleep with me,
In my siesta in the same sweaty hammock,
In a wish that I could finally be able to give away,
My so-called virginity,
Which I must have lost in a strange sleep,
With no one but to myself,
But curlews flew away,
Becoming a mere memory of lethargic August’s Wednesday,
And I started searching for a human,
To talk with me,
Moreover to sleep with me,
But I would have to lie everything,
Like a nice guy in front of a pretty girl,
Same alike the fragile cloud,
For the beauty of autumn,
When sun is enjoying its adultery with autumn marigolds,
I tried, I tried to be a good guy,
I tried to be a good girl,
I tried to be a queer,
I tried to be a lesbian,
Whatever would work,
I thought, would be fine,
Finally on the way to a solitary lake,
A girl whispered to me,
Hey lonely boy!’
‘Hey pretty girl!’, I said.
‘You look as lonely as a dead,
And as dead as a corpse’
The pretty girl told,
‘I’m worst than that.’
I replied,
‘I pity, it was life,
That god gifted to you,
And look what have you
Done to that gift.’
Pretty girl told;
‘I’m an atheist,
Born by mistake
Of the strange night’s love,
In the ecstasy of a plague’
Which even your god regrets’
I replied.
‘You’re dying,
Let’s make a love,
A long one, if the lake permitted,
A brief one, if it ruined us’ she told;
“Before that wouldn’t you ask me,
Who I’m?” I asked and answered,
“I’m a whore;”
“Doesn’t matter, everyone is a whore” she replied,
We were about to fall in love,
She came near to kiss me,
A hurricane came from the lake,
With the wave of sweeping the whole world,
She couldn’t touch me,
I couldn’t touch her,
We both saw the death,
We parted, and I cried towards her,
For the next life,
Just beside the garden of grave,
Ask the deads Where is a whore,
I will be there,
Singing a August song,
“I’m a whore”;
We are dead now;
Thank You! For More Of My Writings: Painted With Words

