I am a perfect page holding some words.
Sometimes I am the night on a bright day.
I could be in the sky and fly like birds
On some days, I’m black and white afterwards
then at noon, silence becomes my pathway.
I am a perfect page holding some words
Lakes of farewell row your boat,
a great seed to an iroko in death.
Gone are you but tales remain
In the deep creek of your nobility.
Here, where psalms of your accolade
hold the curtains of peace
This would have been nicer on your holographic screen
I didn’t have the luxury to do that,
the best of these words are buried,
dead with me long ago.
I want to tell you how your today came
snooping around the corner,
like a piece of color poured upon the sun that shines your path.
It was never like this,
I mean the world in which you live in,
should be more horrific than what I saw.
Many poems I have written
stories that are unforgotten’.
This is a song I never wrote
in my dearth it leaves me beaten
In the four corners of her heart
are transient words fair and still
remembering every nook of pain,
the impure ones that wore a regalia of life
purple one without blood but stains.
I am no painter
if I was, love would be me,
putting words in brush tips, color and water.
I am no canvass so I am free.
Holding back the pain
that comes with the rain.
I exist in too much rush
sometimes inside the sun’s crush.
He hasn’t been wrong from the truth that is left
It’s true your age is long and so are we.
My father carved a bed only to sleep outside,
If he was the head, he’d call the quit that died.
Don’t conclude soon, The President’s dead right.
A tired heart is not dead,
It’s eyes are bloodshot from too much alcohol.
It is quick to judge so it has to be fed.
A tired heart won’t love anymore but still answers the call.
The rocks do not know your name any longer
like the sound of fleeing feet.
Dear Martha Payne from a year ago
I sought your face in the ray of the future sun,
nothing shone in your eyes like death
piercing the wind that called from afar.
On these wavy streets
Are toggle case characters
Spelling all sorts of pain and misdirection
Some sit with the sun raining curse upon the moon
While others are with the wind