The night weeps for the morning

The night tell the ladies
a happy ending with holy shed
It fed the murmuring bees
unarmed liquid

It fuels within
Pointing fingers to the fire
burning half the building

No one, humans, knew the meaning
We laughed expecting the morning
Slept like a cripple in a
rosy habit

We hang our safety with the net
of the sinking fish

Told our children a tale of
Heroes in history
Life’s enemies and
unanswered mysteries

Mend shirts with broken needle
Drinking pills of the
expected blessings

If only we could tear the morning
It could have saved
a thousand beings, a wept
said by the talkative fingers of the
Night

Written in memory of the children that was killed while in school by a suicide bomber in North-eastern Nigeria. May their souls rest in peace.

MO.

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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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