A Bard Can Only But Write Poem by Ceejon Ezinwoke

Solitude, the plight of the monks
birdly free, confined yet physically
Squizing out juices from nostalgic chunks
And melancholy, and her friends to tally

I was yes, your bosom friend
And you, my blessed foe
Together, we peeked the end
Even when her price we do not know

The first became then the last,
The very last thus, afore the rest
Behind the villain in awful mask
Was a soft heart of golden crest

Wrong are we when we feel so right
Forgive, the Bard can only but write
The selfish are like, oh no, a Pelican
Hissurroundingtosee,onlyhe can

Did wenotseekpeace in the placeof wars?
And wore wigs over folks with half our flaws
Yet, we deemed 'us' doves with spotless wings
And like the selected, worthy to dine with Kings

Self inflicted, a mind anguished
And he sulked, moaned and cried
No Victor, and yes, no Vanquished
War, between a man and his pride