Drama In The Wood Poem by Timothy Faboade

Dreams die in the dreamland
Before our dead eyes
Raised before the skies,
They die before they reach moonland.

Awaken, total darkness of daylight
Welcomes us back to the abyss
Nothing yet goes amiss,
Saying it's all about night.

Drowsing, we rumble for the road
Full of shells, blades and thorns
And several withered corns,
Thinking we're not woed?

Yet over there is the Morning
Of fair, fine bliss and joy
While ours is Night of mourning
Some cry like a little sad boy.

Ah! When do we offend the cloud
Whose eyes are secretly hidden
But voice heard so, so loud
In our ears, poverty-ridden?

The cloud's tears away sweep
The foetus in our hearts
That in the night bleed and weep
After we've lost our paths.

Little children fall like withered leaves
When stomachs become empty
Grey hairs blown by mere heaves
We beg, Lord, for empathy.

Young bloods, famished, in the floods,
The glories of our dying hood,
When the nips outwits the buds
Get dried up in the thickest wood.

The Moon hoards its gifts
Morning seems rather far
Night never wants to shift
And unto the doom we're barred.

Stenched, we continue the journey
Of no bearing or guiding maps
And our worries and woes are many
To get some claps.

The whole wood like sea we row
Our fleshes tears like rags
As we scuff like aged stags,
Yet the cocks would never crow.

The Jungles waiting for preys
Patiently in ambush in the wild
Finally! Many have come their way
Before the beast, we're mild.