Submerged within my soul are wise words, which my whole craves,
Voices whose roaring breath enslaves the caves of sunk slaves.
Last night, I dreamed my eyes to death before the mystic moon;
I saw silent silhouettes of owls breaking hens’ eggs at noon,
And words began to lay long bricks upon the bloodied face of the sun.
Amid hissing of grumpy storms like heaving athletes on the run,
I saw doors creak open to pass thoughts of flowing ink,
Spilling fresh drops of a new dawn that dry lips may drink,
Like pregnant clouds that engulf crippled hills of blurred visions.
The scorching flames charred the calm brightness of daylight
And time grew swift wings like a witch on broomstick flight.
I gazed at its mirror and saw broken bones of an old hill.
The bones became words, birthing the future that poets’ moods instill.
Yes, I saw a stream of ghosts sowing seeds of deep muse on mountains,
That dogs may bark no more, when pens give life to voids of lame fountains.
I dared not wake, for the gods were still drunk with wine,
Stitching poets’ plots in time in a bid to save nine.
I lay still for ages to fill the blank pages of my wandering thoughts.
Faint rainbows surfaced to breakwaters of a pregnant morn.
Yet, my eyes hung shut to sleep like young teeth on a corn.
In the arms of a new world, I saw words weaving a basket
Of stars, dumping stale songs of deaf ears in a crumpled casket.
I saw the oceans and deserts making a grand toast
To a new world born from the womb of a poet’s creative post.
The gods blessed my snoring eyes to sway away in bed,
To live the times when flashy queens shall bathe a pig’s head.
Indeed, the skies are torn to shreds and poets’ words now fall as rain!