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By Zadok Kwame Gyesi | Category :: Poem

I have washed
My towel with my own tears
Yet the ocean in my eyes
Is still not dry
I will continue to wail
Wail to flood my path
Wail to mourn
My heart wounds
That was tortured
With an excruciating rod
That widened its aura of sorrow

My hopes are bleeding
When I have by passed
The menstruation of assurance

I will carry my eyes
All day long in my hand
To avoid seeing
The heinous profane lyrical tunes
Danced by all
Including the apostles
Of right thinking thought

I have sealed my mouth
Not as to imitate the dumb
But to keep
My aggrieved thought alone
To myself

I see the pot of peace
Broken on the altar
Of rugged rocky ground
Spilling it content
To the skull tongue
That licks off our joy
Into the tantrum hungry stomach
Of the cruel head

Their eyes blink
And rudeness
And they decorate their thoughts
With wickedness
They trade hardship
In a garnished ways
To their fellow beings
And console them with deceit
Oh! What a metaphorical world?
Tethering peace
To a dying tree
Arise and raise ruin walls
Of black mother from rickety
Ye heirs of the black soil

By Zadok Kwame Gyesi | Feb 5, 2014 | Category > Poem >Sad | Comments 1 | Views 2276

Rubi Sarma
Great Ink.

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