Thou my greatest Hurt!

Thou demand my breath
To the extent of my death
I drill the cave of the watery mine
Thy hands alone enjoy the diamond’s grind

My skin drags with the late night sun
With my tools demanding the wages done
Thou face looks on with the tortoise’s tongue
Not giving a hoot of my weary feet’s song

You wipe my tears with thou saintly linen
Rubbing my back with the dagger’s lining
With thy words solely filled with comfort
My heart find solace in its heavy spurt

Ye!
My expectations await the turn of the running horn
Shattering the seeds of the hard day’s corn
The wasted bones feels alive
To be buried under the realms of thy contrive

I
Oh I
I’m wounded by your holy jabs

MO.

Photo: http://www.recover-from-grief.com

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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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