Precious Okidika (27-04-88 / Port harcourt, Nigeria.)
I searched his eyes in the briefest of moments,
I looked in places no one did,
And saw the emptiness of his soul.
In that split of second,
I heard his soul cry for help,
Like a man set ablaze in his own abode.
I felt the stench of his breath,
The smell of his rotten soul,
Fouled by the odour of liquor.
I watched as he staggered on,
Barely keeping his feet on the ground,
As he walked away from my sight.
I felt the regret in his mind
the sorrow he singly bore
As he muttered words unheard
I saw children greet him with scorn
And he in vain his hurt repress,
As he gently he muted voice cursed.
I wathed him stagger beyond my sight.
I read from him a history of paid,
one only woeful men said.
Comments about this poem (The Drunkard by Precious Okidika )
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