By
Samuel Ayoade
HEARTLESS LOVE
It takes time to incubate my love
But I will finally get it across to you
Your eyes bright as that of a dove
Makes my heart skip within its case
Like sheep upon the hills of Lebanon.
Your smile like the brightness of sunshine
Brings my heart down its egocentric throne
To bow so low before your shrine
Read my lips as they mime the love theme
Mark my words, you are my sunshine.
Your teeth are sparkling white
Like the feathers and wings of angels
That carry on their tails the love tidings
As they flow along the great circle
From the heavenly Eden throne of God.
You are a source of inspiration
My soul sings a song of satisfaction
For my spirit a haven hath found
In a companion as coy as a dove
Whose countenance volumes my love
Take my hands and make me rise
From my hurting knees that stoop so low
Take these petals of love I offer
For I plucked them from my eyes
My eyes I offer so our love could be blind.
Even if you refuse to give in
I found comfort kneeling here forever
On bended knees that once roam
Now found a haven and won’t let go
Take these petals and let them wilt not
From the base of my heart I give my soul,
From the depth of my spirit I offer my body
From the core of my body I give my heart
A willing sacrifice I make myself
To you, I give myself away.
My heart I wrap in these petals
Take it and make it really dare to you
Preserve it lest it gets crushed and I die
Whatever wrong I do henceforth, just pardon
For I, no longer have a heart.
PUTREFACTION
these men are slaughtering peace
on the altar of our innocence.
they burn incense of immoralities
on the altar of our ignorance,
with our lifeless life at stake
at the abbatoir that lay open
upon these hills of degenerating layers
at the cost of a generation’s life span.
men rot like eggs and their medular decline.
foul smell like stale milk
emanating from dead human skins
killed and skinned by cream-power,
like the quarantine for bacilus anthraxis – that explodes irremotably like gun powder.
‘daughters of god’ with slim-fit skimpy skirts, against the ‘sons of god’ they throw their darts.
the ‘children of god’ erranding for mammon, and the ‘servants of god’ bowing to gold, with rolls of canabis attached between the cannasial teeth of these canivores as they minister to the destinies of the ‘people of god’
who dance ‘shoki’ and ‘azonto’ with the ‘holyghost craziest noise.’
Today!
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