Shadows of broken veils, it strove
A bolt of warmth far off the furrowed all;
Vapours, pore-breaching, of the first
The morning’s tender glance
Droops above the yolk serene, its
Writhing brush of bloodshot glare
And the heavy thrust of a broadening void
In weak recession of that glance.
O how cold it drew – stifled echoes
In twine rustles; birdlimes glaze on
Dim wings…it drew
A vacant reed, a brittle spine
*I attest to the tyranny of want in all places, to the tragedy it sets on stage of minds. It seems that man has more to scratch from earth than life and water. Only few transcend the bound, they are herald to the dearth, the lost passions and lost presences. I write in memory of the rupture.
Written by: Oludipe Oyin Samuel
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.