by Olive McCoy
Does it make you my god,
How much I long to be the sun
That kisses, warms and
Burns your skin?
Or to be the rain you read by,
That waters your garden?
Does it make me your disciple,
How I breathe for the idea of you?
Yearning for you.
Blinded and faithful.
Or, am I your prophet?
Immortalising you now,
Baring you for all to see,
Yet, retaining your sacred anonymity
For my own selfish worship.
Perhaps, I am a deity of
Spontaneous creation.
Wearing bright fictitious pearls into
The ugly, grey fabric of you.
Yes. I am a goddess.
Called upon by you
To bleed and bless the rain
You read by,
To cry into your garden.
I am the sun that burns your soft skin.
1 am your God.