Chattel To Grief Poem by Stephen Omolori

Sometimes I drift into the dark woods in my head,
Especially when I remember my dearly departed mother.
Like a thirsty kevel encircled by ravenous wolves,
Grief attacks and tears me in my solitude.
Helpless, I shut myself from everything, everybody,
Hiding the tears behind the mask poetry gave me.
I act as if writing poetry is an analgesia,
But to be honest, I see the blood from my bleeding heart
Pouring on the pages the more that I write.
The cold hands of Death made me an antithalian,
Showing me how quickly the finest of flowers fade.
Since I'm a teetotaller, to make the mask hold firmer,
I became a bibliobibuli, drinking other writers'.
Each time I remember mother's life down to her enhearsing,
I tell myself that longevity is nothing but a mendacity.
Esprising me after I had lost hope in existence,
Your torch burned brightest, chasing the wolves away.
Though I can't be execated whenever the memories replay,
I hope you don't call me crazy for grieving,
Especially when I withdraw into my shell to pour out tears.
Though the human heart is a chattel to Grief,
It becomes unfettered when another's heart treasures it.