top of page


Updated: Aug 11, 2023

If only I could prune my true origin,

From whence my forbears came,

I'd accept not to be cleansed.

At the outskirts and be naked,

Sheafed only in shea leaves.

Who shields the object of my pride?

My hair-s shaved to a barren land.

My eyes, scarlet from weeping and fear.

A kind soul to wipe away a tear.

Dead is dead, hear a deadpanned.

And unto dust, must he return.

But his spirit lives unturned.

She must for years mourn,

She must be clothed in gabs,

black as the nights within her.

The ghost remains hers alone.

A shroud, so dark to keep her dead

To prove her innocence of complicity.

Give her nights with a living death.

Cleanse her of his dying breath.

Cure her of his love maim.

Her peace is set ablaze.

But she hopes to live.

Beshrouded to bury her same love.

43 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Alarmists and Shadows

The forefathers fought for freedom, For their dreams, shadows turn to boredom, While MAGA whispers, hearts as cold, Scoundrels embrace thugs as disillusions take hold. In fleeting hopes, tender flame

Useful Idiot Goes To Russia

A cowardly goose returns to Russia from YouTube, The shock jock, a pathetic dog of erstwhile FoxTube, Was all giddy with exigency, ready to go! Feeding his conscience with his fragile ego for the show

If Immunity Hates

If they all had presidential immunity all day, And if only America were a little further away, George could ask Seal Team Six to assassinate John. But it may not be a good time to be out until dawn. W


Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page