Wednesday, 8 March 2017


My mind's pupil saw a loom,
Interlacing a thread of lost love with
A strand of grief owning to a follicle of Sorrow, owning to a foal distressed by a luxurious jewelry that Headed to sheol.
Perhaps, if i glide through the spine of the miles and be with a friend, or a family friend.
My eye would be engulfed as a red, watery moon, my teeth would cramp in black,
hoping to whiten but back to black,
But my quiet soul would sit in melancholy to offer solace. Maybe the flesh jah wore over my bone would owl in anguish,
And prick my conscience that
my quiet stay would not suffice,Cause this family deserves more, more i say, more i insist.

My teeth would wince and say under impulsive blunder, that i understand what i don't, and maybe i
Would understand if i wear your soul, fit your bone as mine, rewind the treelike wheel of time,
or malnourish this adult time if perhaps it would become a baby once again,
Interlace my heart with your memory while Unmaking it gradually and making it back from time
Immemorial to the history of the future and to this moment, and stick to your thought like Australian wild
Babies in their mother's pouch
, but this only Jehovah could do.
Hello please ! Can you please erase that exclamation mark?
Cause my little self is poetizing in a frail , Sottovoce, low voice ,
audible to your family and every other person that cares.
Is this dady please? Is this temi, fisy, Dotun or lekan ?
Or mumy surely coming back to read this one day after Armageddon
With that her pleasant, "beautiful smile"?
Can you hear this voice please ?
It's like the voice of grief , piled as a cliff in my mothers soul,
When i was exiled with nobody in the mountainous valley of Lombardy,
It is the Voice of a yearlong famished women ,
having a dry loofah deprived of soap and
water as a meat on her first meal,
It is the voice of a red heart ,that darkened even the moon
And poured its tears in fierce rains of dusty and hot water,
Sprinkled with a powdered sun as dreadful aquifers, with a dismay coloured orseille from the dead sea.
Can you hear this silent voice please ?
Its the voice of a famished day old baby, whose mother died at birth, sticking her oval tiny
Mouth to her grandmother's areola mammae having
A dry shaggy nipple at the centre,
sucking out several nothing till the third day.
Can feel her tears?
Can you hear her cry please?
It's the voice of a lowly girl,
lost in a land of weird looking shanties, took a pen and wrote a poem
Until she was lost in the desert of doodle,
Creating memories with this pictures,
with all her effort was trying to console
Her red heart, listless effort it would seem though.

If Christ could morn These Sottovoce voices are not telling you not to, just reminding you of that hope you already remember.
All these voices are like emblems signifying
the mournings of my family and every other person that cares in our brotherhood, telling you that you are not left alone
in the island of grief.
All are low pitched voices except one loud voice - Jehovah's voice , And may he Comfort, Console, and offer solace to your bereaved heart
Until some few hours in his sight when he will call and she will definitely " answer ". - according to Daddy and praisejah's tributing words.

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