A mug of espresso to oppress my gut,
Encapsulated hot, in my palm.
From threshold to denouement, my thoughts twirl
Like a juvenile approaching his hitchhike‘s end;
In search of soothing laughter, it gads,
Seeking treasures which may not be.
From breathing abodes, overtly boisterous,
I saunter away in reproach.
My axioms remain my brainchild.
A man neither gabbles nor guffaws,
When his red essence is singed.
Do the fiery orange tongues
Not reduce whole to part,
I sip from my mug;
Its airy expression engages my balls of vision;
I stare in frisson.
A lad, naïve, who zooms off to the Sahara
In search of cacti,
Knows not how rare an oasis is.
Do leisurees not nibble peanuts and popcorns
As they glare at motion pictures?
He who is unprepared to cogitate,
Downs an uncold mug of espresso
In one gulp.
Written by: Darlington Ekene Ogugua
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
- SIX ISN’T SIXTY (by Darlington Ekene Ogugua) (angrypoets4women.wordpress.com)
- Because I Am Not Weak (wordsrhymesandrhythm.wordpress.com)
- Sons of the Sahara (wordsrhymesandrhythm.wordpress.com)
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.