By the last jingle of the mourning bells by the first rap on hell’s gate
will i, a man
speak of my shame?
Will i not my troubles wish to fade? As the stairs of heaven has no cascade, so has the tears of my fears dried out with age.
shall our screams of mercy
still in biers live?
Shall the obsolete fire of triumph still in its closet breathe?
On the grave of our toil,
still do our sorows dine.
The cold pot of anger,
he wishes not to boil.
Only, nature’s stinging arrow of understanding,
has no business with the tyrant notwithstanding.
Stuck in the traffic of confusion,
princely adorned in fustration robes,
laced impeccably for dumpster shoes
On Ravens wings escapes the strife.
Frivolous symphonies from the forest’s pipe,
yet his practice forbids the body’s might.
Immaculate garbage on royal chairs
pens refuse to cringe,
satires best lain on strings
Dirges, life’s concert composes
surgeons’ spark seeks sinister syringes.
So porous is deceits pitch,
modesty would not volunteer to be the snitch.
No sport; more goals
more answers; no questions
nice teachers tend towards thundering temptations.
Forgetfulness heists away adolescent wisdom
miraculous stamps on prayers
endless emphasis embeded on suplications
while socculent slumbers seduces sore soles
enticed by the wiles of defeat;
to steal the honour in victory.