Skip to main content

Featured Poem: Timeless Love - by Martins Deep



I fear to tell you
Why I go to the dark cave every evening.

If you must know
Its because she that my soul loves is a dragon.
A wild beast.

She devours my fears.
She invades my mind and dispels
My doubts.
She dethrones my ego
And breaks the walls of hate.
She sinks the ships of depression
I surrendered as she broke down my gates.
She has taken the empire of my soul.
Can you find her kind
In the book of animals?

She haunts the cities
Of my painful past
And brings to me spoils.
Wisdoms.

She is not beautiful?
Your eyes will never tell you she is.

Her beauty is not given for the  eyes to behold.
Your eyes will lie to you.

She breathes fire; I burn.
She beats my pen into a sword; I conquer.

She is not among the daughters
That go down to the stream
With earthen pots to draw water.

She is wingless
Without the poetry
My heartbeats recites.
My whispers is the wind
She glides in.

I sail in her tears
To lands eagles have not seen.

My ink is the only wine she drinks.
She lies drunk in my arms
and that's when you find me here.

Do not frown at this slave I have become
O do not!
For I'm lost to a love
So beyond words.
There is no return.
Seek me not
You will never find me
tracing my footprints on the sands.
Footprints can only be found
on the sands of time.
The realm in her
arms is timeless.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

Letter To My Son

Dear Son Try to forget that nothing waits in the dark, raise your shoulder high wave off the frea and step into that lane. Won't you rather be gone in there than stay out here playing the coward? Get up now, son everyone falls. #Pengician #SSA http://bit.ly/2haEhoj

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...