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tell the wind,
to cease his motion.
and rub love like lotion
Headed head,
cry in jagged edge hole,
Full loaded city,
now mourn the steps,
and noise of his beloved
Cows lost their horns
Kings lost their crown...
imagine! the mat seller
Now sleep on bare floor...
An ocean was just created,
a pool on anguish and sorrow,
dug up by sword of vandal...
A lot of black attire merchant,
now makes money,
all in the name of mourning
I wish all hear these,
if so,
can I borrow your tongue.
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Writer Profile
Samuel K Akinbo
I AM SAMUEL A CRITIC AND SOMEONE THAT LOOKS AT THINGS FROM AN INSIGHT. I LOVE TO SING AND WRITE ABOUT THE IRONY OF LIFE.
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