A man of Rituals
I fell in love with a dangerous man,
a man whose shadow walked ahead of him,
whose eyes carried the silence
of graves unmarked.
He spoke in the language of fire,
his whispers smelt of blood and incense,
and when he touched me,
I felt the trembling of spirits
too ancient to name.
His love was not tender
it was sacrifice,
it was ritual,
it was the smoke curling from midnight altars
where I stood trembling,
offering my heart
like the lamb that bleeds without protest.
I should have run
but desire bound me tighter than rope,
drawn to his darkness
as if my soul was already promised.
Now, when the moon rises,
I hear his chants in my veins,
and the night itself bends
to the memory of his hands.
To love him was to be devoured,
to drown in a river
where no prayers reach the surface.
And yet...
even in the ruin of myself,
I ache for him still,
for the man of rituals
who taught me that love
can taste like death
and still be sweeter than life.??
Copyright © Relebogile Makhutle | Year Posted 2025
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