The walls have found me


The walls have found me
In my dark days, in my rag age
Gloried in shame

Held me captive, my prayers
like a wind
In the night, sail a toss ship

I stared at the blank space
Provided by my images
With fresh bricks, in its youthful dreams

I wondered where
God’s eyes had been
Where the last of his breath lives,
the memories of his heart sleep

The walls live on, in my neck
In my hands, in my legs
A swollen glove with no
strength to beat
No words to depart with

I summon my heart
a thousand whips, not
To be a slave to tender feelings,
But a master in sheep’ clothing

With lovelies appearance of water,
Pressed on some side with blood dew
I appeared as of a nightingale
In a theatrical stage surrounded
With little feet

The applause reminded me
For martyrs to be, there must be
A wooden tree
For which their names would be
Cursed with


Image courtesy:


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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