For Those Who Called Little Ones Half-Way Poem by Miracle Oluwasola

There's a certain wound about my deed
That refuses to heal, I did all that I could
To hold down the pain anytime I breethe,
The more I shielded it, the more it grew.

When it creeps up and I pay it some mind,
It screeches on my conscience for hours, fixed
Like a kettle of vultures of all vicious kinds,
Tearing deep into my flesh with their beaks.

Sometimes it tickles hard and I wreathe in pain,
Shedding tears in a corner of my abode with thoughts
Of nothing but the grim riper all smiles and gay.
Every hour seems so eager to bring my last call.

My shadows seem to abhor what I have done,
For wherever I move about, they get in my ways.
There's no telling how much they know of my wrong,
For, they were there when I erred in the first place.

When I sit in the playgrounds and I see offsprings
Of the rich and the poor, happy and full of life,
I feel a shiver of cold blood run through my spine
For mine could have been, only if I had let it live.