Victor Adex

Rest

I am fallen upon your breasts
And my hearts whispers rests
...

This place of my Love
Is a quick sand with tourist attraction
Like a self-aware mouse knowing
That this cheese will be the death of me
...

Before words became the tools of expression
This love was sung with the effulgence of glory
Too sacred for the unclean lips of fallen man
...

Riddle

What is like
Lipstick impression on stained glass?
...

I see men dangling Upon the pikes
Of a sentence called life
Man treating her like a despicable imprisonment
...

There will always be grievances
War is the raging darkness
Hungry for a slice of the human soul
It is Thirsty To be drunk on the blood of innocent men
...

My buttocks are sore from sitting long
My ears hurt from fangs of similar tongues
My tongue: forlorn from penury of monotonous songs
If remain on this spot
...

i know a fish that a flies
a bird that swims

I've seen predators
...

God made tears for days like these
Love is a broken bottle inside pregnant wombs
Emotions are shattered glasses in baby's court
Hearts pounding me on the stakes of folly
...

Whether on motherland or in death; We will win!
I shed my blood and bleed my tears On the unmarked grave
Cursed for bearing your unripe body; Sacred for covering the
shattered and Fragmented pieces of what was once your body
...

No man can stand this gory sight
Let darkness hide us in the shadows of the night
Tell the sun to hide our abyss from his light
Our destiny is a height of pitiable plight
...

THE NOOSES STILL HANG

Maybe the gods are in KKK
Maybe fate allies with hate
...

They already said I am the weird one
Chasing my dreams through midnight high ways

but I miss the dead!
...

Let me not wear father's name
On this muddy capes of injustice
Now that I know why the rainbow
Never speaks black
...

the dawn will arrive
just a tide upon the thighs of starless darkness
i will arise!
reborn and dusted
...

Tonight, in kallakulta
The walls resound the powerful orations of afrobeat
Along the forgotten corridors of time
Hoping that they sip true the cracks of continuous reality
...

my words would not be washed off Pilate's hands
to crucify them again on vain crosses
my words would not re-stress the stress of our leaders
they will undress the hypocrisy beneath your dress
...

...

my words would not seek attention
at the ulcer-ed conscience of unreachable malady
they will not un-profit in screaming at corruption
they will settle to build castles with the chaos of labour
...

could I run out of words?
Maybe for you,
I may not find the perfect words
to give expression to thoughts,
...