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Dilantha Gunawardana


POW from Sheba's Dressing


Reminders of her ransack,
His collage of memories;
Like podcasts playing in his psyche;
Her flowing locks,
Pitch black with quaint curves,
Hugging the upper margin of her luscious hipbones;
Waltzing in the serenading breeze;
Her smile, like the advent of spring;
Amidst a Celtic winter-coated dawn;
Petite Dentile stubs that shimmer;
Like a string of white topazes;
Awakening spring time;
Her body, a luscious carpet;
In a Celtic glow, that ushers in, a scent of perfection;
Celtic clay immaculately molded by God's palms;
To conceive my goddess, Eve;
With a skip in her step, a gazelle's gait;
As I slurp the remnants of the droplets of liquid food;
That scatter inside the squalid margins of my plastic plate;
As I rest in my collage of memories;
Of her, my fleeting sylph;
Waiting to taste precious freedom;
As I gaze at her aura from behind my iron bars;
The only sanctuary left,
For a prisoner of war in Sheba's dressing.

Submitted: Saturday, July 28, 2012
Edited: Friday, September 07, 2012
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Story of a POW

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