BY JEFFREY MANE FEBI
If humans were formed from dust, & poetry is our meager attempt to reveal the beautiful or sublime; the beauty of this dust from which we originated from is unsurpassed -jmf
At birth of day;
When the day was ripe;
At death of day;
Even when the night’s eye
Was sleeping, he searched
His dreams. Reaped them apart;
Turned them upside down and
Scribbled their charms on memory.
Only to find hosts of
Exhausted, out loud he cried.
'Give me a drink of thesaurus, and
Cigars rolled in pages of a dictionary.
I'd be drunk with beautiful metaphors,
And be high with unusual rhymes that
Sing and dance. I’d sing along and
Sprightly dance that our voices may
Reach over vales and hills
Till my mind’s ink is drawn.
Yes! O yes, an echo on shelf
Lonely and dusty continues to sing.
On platforms or from behind silent corners,
I'd care not because, time …;
Would’ve dealt with me”.