The stranger

I hear endless noise
From the stranger that whispers
In the dark

Save a name
He wrote on a pack

His long nails could be felt
As he wrote on a scratch

Skeleton by skeleton
The movement rose a flight

The muscles march on like some rats
On street fight

Hey there! Give me some cigarette
To light the heart

I hear the movements of the waiter
Pass the light
Pitiful tongues lash on his back
The enemies of the night
Took their first bite

The moustache hurry on with delight
None worries and a wooden jar
Like a weather storm with a broken heart

I could sense, the grief in his smile
The homelessness in his thoughts
The loneliness of the cold heart

I could sense it all
From a thousand miles
I could sense it all
if I woke up from the darkest town

The cloud could witness, mine
Was the part I’d suggest a rest

He wrote on, wrote on
Till the rivers flood, the eyes shut
And the song was indecisively burnt

I hear the pen drop
The saliva stopped
And the man moved on
Like it never was dark

From the scratch, I held my hand
And my night was buried
In his heart

He happened to be a writer
That was just passing by

MO.

Image courtesy: shutterstock.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.
This entry was posted in Poems and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to The stranger

  1. kph52013 says:

    Yes. A writer’s life!

    Like

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