She is fifteen
A half-moon
in a little frame,
Dwelling in fairy tale
Despite of all controversies
Pretty frock frills that
strive hard to conceal the-
blobs of flesh on her chest,
Always ended up-
with a candied mouth.
She is seventeen
A winsome warbling bird,
Whirling in a daydream
Almost a full moon.
Her classy bosoms
A little too full hourglass,
that separates the sleeves.
She hates the cramps,
That comes often with-
a nasty acrid smell
She is twenty,
Feisty with full of spirit
A perfect full moon,
Like the dangling-
earrings of night.
Her scoop neck-
Is proud of those endearing
breasts, obsessed with love.
She is a satellite that,
flown overseas through ages
And fell on the ground-
as a meatloaf,
Look at the sky,
Where you can see her
As baleful black clouds,
Prior to a heavy downpour!
The only poem she left with,
remains unpublished.
Arsha Bijer
© Arsha Bijer 2022
