The Wield Poem by Babatunde Esho

The idle hands, crave a flair
To make possessions of thin air;
To knead smoothness, from craggy edges.
And makes undone tasks become pledges.


Salve the blisters and dab the bruises,
Make daylights, not just for musing.
But for guiding it's light,
To craft perfection in sight.

Noble work almost ended,
As work and play is almost blended
A talent is wrought from graggy plains,
And many admirers almost make it vain

Mastery yields it’s offspring,
and birth pangs stops and sings,
One rest, between idle hours gained
Thanks to God, we start again.