An old man named Tom

An old man named Tom
Sang to her daughter in bed
While her hair wiped the surface
Of her heart
The dust on her face

He’d plunged her soft in his hands
And hold her
Till the morning sweeps
broom across their gate

Canticle of the dead
His voice would raise
And the sweet lips would turn the world
Secreted with heavenly whisper
By the foot of his crucifix

All eyes gaze more in his song
Telling history of love
That, that of a Mother’s face


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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