I waddle through life Sprout at times from its epiphany,
Yet I think I am strong
Because I rise too from the wombs of love
And I have fooled myself, not once.
That I was born from the lineage of legends,
That I am strong enough to shut my pain inside.
I spoilt for war with fate
Dressed in full battle regalia of my entirety,
Love shook me to the core
And in my plate of whims, I fed on my broken pieces.
I lie here lost in a disappearing cave deep in a dark sea,
Held by the waters of my flaming angst
Tied by the spiritual ravens of my despair,
Whispering in the flock of cold tides of creeping destruction.
Yet I still coil to my shame and mumble thanks
To my hollow grip of life
To the love I learnt to shred deep in my heart.
As if bubbling from a leaking wall in a sanitarium
I scatter under my skin.
Then I realize I am too weak to keep fighting my muffled screams
But pouring remains a gush of death.
I am trapped in a continuum of fading light
Branded as a scourge of my destabilized vision of God.
I am tarnished in the whipping trickles of purpose
Buried in melancholia of purifying haunted flaws on my past.
Time seeds furnace and in my thumping case of relentless dreams
I find realization of my spiritual upturned glass,
Fluttering in blurs of hammering trolls of an awakened infant.
Too much romance lies in my decomposed turncoat of terror
For love too intensifies its presence to someone I object returning to,
And I’d rather stay lost than beg for love again
As I have learnt to wither to a single dried vein.
There are places like this where time languishes in cadavers,
Where a Minotaur romps me in the ropes of the horizon.
In my constellation of unseen specks of uncomposed tears
I feel I should stand quiet before God and Love,
Then slip away like jilted smoke, so precious in tribulation.
The two have stuck with the quilt in my deserted choices
Though I shriek at attempting to quiet the Harmonica,
That mazes my embodied symphony ebbing out of my spineless struggle.
I weep in the absoluteness of the carriage of happiness,
Marooned in the prodigy of love’s perusal pages,
Lamenting in the cascading mentality of God’s regression.
It’s strange when all I can bite is frost,
Then wander in a vast expanse of forgotten memories
For if it were up tome, I wouldn’t prolong this craving.
I forego my whims of nature violins stringing on loins of burnt pages,
Tired of hidden soliloquies, I painfully choose to ignore.
I topple in the echoes of recycled salvation,
I topple in the twitching consternation of unrequition.
As I present enormous flooding to my susceptible fragility,
Attached to a cracking pot tossed in the mused fire of reparation.
I relinquish my facade to the pretension of fate,
And I continue to fight for life in the sinking cave of my lost love.
© Eddy Ongili 2014bu