Dedication To Photograph Of A Beauty

I am feminine in my youth; and this is my game.

Like a child I play. Just to feel my power growing, just to keep me familiarised with my burnished weapons. 

These are the days of hunt. There is no blood, but wounded men moan, as I walk among them seemingly unaware but counting my trophies. 

Not to kill, and yet wound mortally is a sublime art; to tie everything in which beats a masculine heart with me, and yet to keep it at bay is a sublime art; I am natural at it like all artists, and yet the work is needed to refine the art, for my weapons are deadly, if not wielded in practiced hands. 

So, I practice my pose.

Is smile taut enough! Or need I give away a bit more. Though, lustre of my lips should not betray the rush of blood in my veins-give it away. Is glint in the eyes almost a glow-hinting desire? It must be wrapped well in the innocence, eliminating all expression of desire’s shape and form, and yet not obscure the idea of desire completely, for its fragrance must seep out. 

But, allow only the fragrance-the intangible; a tangible desire is nothing but a need, and ‘to need’ is to cease to have full control.

I may allow control to him, but I never ever lose it. That, again, is a sublime art- to keep real control but transfer the real responsibility, a trade in the currency of semblance, by never displaying fully formed goods of my desire. 

And so, my eyes, perhaps, need a little more work with curiosity and scrutiny, the right balance of them; my lips, perhaps, should resist the affinity of moistness with them a bit more. Perhaps, a duller sheath for my potent armaments is needed, to keep them concealed. 

These tresses! A million black vines, glowing well nourished on my brimming youth, these bearer of flowers of darkness! How many nights of passion, of fire and sweet heat will blossom in them. And yet, this forest of ripe desires should not invite its visitors, for they have to wander in to it themselves, and be lost for ever. Beauty can not sustain it self on guilt, guilt withers it down; to blossom it needs to devour its victim innocently. 

Oh! This virtuous cycle of feminine divinity in peak youth, not easy to master, how just feeling my power makes my power grow manifold. 

-Pulastya 

(Dedicated to photograph of a beauty)