The Cold.


A view of the motherland’s bosom cannot be faltered.

Irreparable, are the expanses of her contours.

In a world where the wind owns our Marilyns, how dare we leave virgins outside for the prowl.

Inch by inch, we alter life as we know it.

And then we ponder why blisters are forged from our unknown.

Perfection was not to be our destiny.

Progress, the only target we should harbor.

Fears of fortitude, pronounced more by uncertainties.

History, the only Bible we have refused to read.

From my wishes to return to the ink that gave me breathe, to my curse that makes me run from the thoughts in my head.

How dare I blame the house that I bought with hard earned Shillings.

For covering me craftily, with my grudge and despair.

You never choose to be writer, you just are.

Wish me another destiny, I just can’t.

Man’s nature, by design, is to retreat, if he hath no spear in hand.

We’re inclined to dominate with tools, of a chosen kind.

Mine, a pen, a pad, and a thought.

As the pen bleeds its ink, the cloud of thoughts propel into a cathedral.

Behold! The manner sent from man’s brain, may sometimes stumble the feet of Angels.

More so, we remain more powerful than they could ever be, and we could ever know.

But the slightest prick and we retreat so far that it bulldozes our faint strength.

We, I, are so scared of losing so we don’t even try.

Though the afternoon sun comes to clear the horizon, our morning fog endeavors to shield the wonder.

No wonder.

No wonder our strongest, our perseverest, our champions, have all got a gloom.

Stevie lost his eyes, Basquiat lost his head, Cobain lost his life.

The more we lose, the more humanity gains.

What a cold.

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