Of what use is our talk???

You keep turning the curve
into tiny bits
Of a perfect needle’s eye
Where nothing is left
To sow the woven sheet

You keep rubbing the signs
With your wooden pen
Pretending with a smile
The night sky is white

You look away
From the calling birds
Stricken with wooden ears

Our road
Lead to the clear cut
Of the grave
Where pigeon decorate
Its lay with bitter gray

You suck
You suck the nectar out
Of the veins of our relationship
Leaving nothing but scales
To enjoy the watch
On the films of the river

It is dead
It is dead I say
If you do not awaken
The Ghost that walks
In the noon’s shade

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About Michael Ogundele

A writer, ardent reader and lover of nature. fell in love with writing five years back and I've been engraved in her arms ever since. I share my little way of writing poetry and reflections based on Catholic faith and Spirituality on this space. I hope you enjoy reading as we ride the same chariot to the leafy greens. Do follow me and together, let us jump into the ocean of my ink.
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