Lost Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

From my dusty rusty rough window,
I saw her moved drastically with tears in her eyes.
Broken, battered; beaten out and bloody.
The earth mocked the sole of her feet,
The sun laughed behind her in joy;
Her woman had been murdered by nature on a black bitter friday.
I watched her drove herself into the mouldy ground,
The gown she worn made jest of her gushing tears.
Lost in spirit, lost in life; lost in darkest hell of lost.
Experience of motherhood frustrated her prime,
The only thing that made her a woman is gone.
Broken.
Battered.
Beaten out.
Ashamed and bloody.
All eyes were feasting on her desperation and agony
Which flapped, flew side by side without flaws.
Watching her uncivilized sorrow hurting my soul,
I bottled my eyes into her groaning heart that sank into mine, in desperation and depression; I worn her shoes in the mourning of her lost palm fruit in fire.
When you have children, the longing for them would make you go insane without knowing;
When you have none, the longing for them would kill you and, when you lost one, the agony takes you away.
From my dusty rusty rough window,
I watched her in pity rolling and wailing on the ground, helpless and motionless with the world against her.
People gathered around her gazing in horror,
Later, she was taken inside.
Then I shook my head displeased with women's troubles as my legs wobbled in fear of the unknown.
Women: in marriage are the weaker vessel and most cheated.
In pregnacy; sorrow and pains,
In labour; agony and bitterness,
The nursing of babies has its own problems on them.
If this is what women pass through in life,
I reject to be a woman in my million years on earth; even if I come back again and again,
I won't be a woman because they have lots of stories
Which their mouths can't tell.