Sunday Poem: Lip Rouse

The hill never thought 

It will happen.

On a knoll, deserted and desolate, 

There will ever be mist and fog.


All along

The hill was called horrid, muddled and jumbled.

Didn’t deserve a caress or hug.  



In silence, in a dusk

Softly you touched, 

Cuddled hard and smelled strong.

With a smouldering kiss, you whispered, “A priceless art.”


Dumbed and perplexed,  

The hill didn’t know 

How to react.

He hugged you with all his heart

And made you listen to his beats 

You said, “We should meet again.”

He wished to say, “Again and again and again.”


After you were gone,

As he looked up 

Bright was the knoll  

With your lip rouse,

And blurred was his vision 

In mist and fog.

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