This is my entry to the weekly contest by @steemit-virus , I am so glad to be a part of the Nigerian steemit community and this is me making,baking, serving what I see to my fellow readers

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She held on to the flowers screaming with a life of their own,
Aware the fellow purple floret will spring;
Drift into the world riding with the wind,
Fleecy and flossy white spores scattered across the area.
Bearer of wishes and finesse, a beauty unimaginable.
Her hands firmly grasp the stems, no thorns to prick roving fingers.
She cannot let go, nonetheless, she tries,
Palms entangled on rugged stems clasped too hard.
So firm are her hands, blood arrives forth,
The strain of her grip too fierce;
With colossal thought, he gazes at her, reads her reactions,
She does not comprehend why he’s torturing her; she needs aid.
She’s dressed in her azure dress and in life he adores it,
In her fantasy, he opts at the texture of her sleeve in distaste.
Murmuring to himself, then hit with a ideation,
He’s found a slim furrowed vase in purple analogue to her flowers.
She doesn’t understand the comparison or the logic,
When ink he spills onto her flowers from the pot.
He smudges her hands till they appear black,
The flowers are defiled and slithered with ink like oil.
The spurted ink is allover,
Her treasured smirked at her, he casts her chin and blinks,
Welcomes the flowers and hands them in the vase.
The ink is attached to her hands and arms;
His and hers, and he’s chuckling.
Expressing how stubborn ink is to detached from one’s skin,
So he nurtures her face and he gives her a long kiss,
However she rouses in her dream,
To long lasting ink stains over all her face and hands.
He grins at her, steps away no consideration for the ink staining him.
The moon shimmer in the sky and it rains — pails of black tar ink,
Fondling her body, covering as slime, plopping and overflowing.
What purpose is ink if she has no pen’s cartridge to stick it in?
She’s not qualified to use it to write.
The world around is submerged by this valuable asset,
And when she finally wakes for real, all is erased.
Still, the hands she holds up to the rays of sunlight,
Are tinted dark black;
She’s branded in the mnemonic of a dream,
Nightmares and perceptibility never giving way to reality.

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I want to say a shout out to @gbenga and other fellow Nigerian curators for taking their time to promote steemit in Nigeria and I’m glad to be part of their community. I also appreciate @steem-virus for giving us this wonderful opportunity to express our creativity. I also appreciate @jeaniepearl for giving me the support and inspiration by always telling me not to give up no matter what.

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