Stripped off of the Panganoron-

Pagtuga amorous triangulation,

she wanted the tits of her time

but unlike the Bangkok girls,

hers was pure royalty magic--

34B, presumably—to be quaint.

and coquettish, and Maria Clara-esque

until the women see her as one with them.

So one night, amid macho thunderclaps

and cerulean lightning bolts, by the shore

facing the Pacific, naked yet wrapped

in grey, billowy silk, she knelt down on both knees,

with tears in her eyes and ashen hair wet from the mist,

she prayed.

Perhaps this isn’t me.

Perhaps this isn’t mine.

The wind calls my name,

But it’s not the same, all the time.

Let the truth from the skies above

Fall freely so I could catch a piece

So when I rise one day to thank you

I’d have a majestic peak and within,

a divine peace.

And then a roar, a clap, a lightning streak

Was seen from oceans and mountains away

Tropical winds wafted the coconut trees

stripping her of her silken wrap until she lost breath

and collapsed, facing the skies, with her long legs

sideways falling from kneeling, her arms high above her head.

The next morning, her chest—a chest that has kept secrets

for so long—grew a cone-shaped peak, a tit facing the skies.