Pulse Poem by Alexander Onoja

My heart's like a drum,
Only but a few can play;
Although no one has.

My heart's like a drum,
Made of flesh and bleeds too.
Whenever it finds a hand so tender and soft,
It becomes piteously mangled that the beat fades and stops.

It gets tired of waiting sometimes and beats itself,
Releasing sweet melodies sometimes,
Other times a brokenhearted tune.
Drumming for hours till the pleading was done,
But still, no one learnt to play;
So the beat fades and falls.

Waiting and listening to the echos of silence.
So tell me, if the heart is gracious,
What then is wrong?

01.08.2021