Empty Hands Poem by Zyw Zywa

The elder wears my wedding dress
allures me closer and lifts me back

in His arms, lays me down
on the bed again, is spreading
over my beauty

in the beach house near the waterfall
that ice-cold whipped my hands

when I passed behind the roaring
shuffling sidewards with Him
over a ledge of surrender

of which the fire was invisible
for the couples who didn't dare

What am I doing here open and exposed
in the street with His head weightless
in my empty hands

weighing His buttocks and stroking
the lust of His erectile tissue

in my empty hands
in old smells
and white elder