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My plate,
On it I serve,
Words like a buffet.
Chopped up
In chapters.
Meat balls
For stanzas.
With you,
Have I slain words,
The corpse
Buried in books
The blood of ink
Have I smeared.
On the skeletons,
Of history.
Like a gong,
I hear your call
From afar,
Like a waterfall,
I am drawn
To make Love,
In between lines,
Made on sheets.
The silence,
Of your voice
Louder, than,
A thousand thunders.
The sting,
Of the scorpion,
Is but a kiss,
To your venom.
Like clay,
Minds you mould.
Like clay,
Kingdoms you broke.
Like droplets,
On still water,
Far and yonder,
Is breath of your power.
No tombstones
For my grave,
Where mortality withers,
Away, hanging
Head hung,
Dripping,
In his morbid state.
On my pen’s stake.
Written by: Nwakanma Chika
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