The wound hails the pains
Yet blurs the voice in groans
The slur of past we let loose
Heaps upon the course we march
Bane of hope, yet we shrug
Our nous in pyx of dark

We course future as though
The past we but arrive
Lest a foot ahead
Twain to back we set

Aught I know of then
Now? beyond my bite
What happened to the growth I danced?
In my cradle summertime

And the little of home I grew to crave
Ruined to ambiance of zilch
The vassal of these souls and land
Cares but “cakes” and laps
Have Patience, he says
And pray, Good luck to come

But a mist of night you are
The sun, soon, shall cast it rays

(c) Adebayo Shu’aib Adebayo
Read more: https://myadebayo./