Moonchild Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

The sun of Aleppo will not
Smit you by the night of war;
for you are the toothpick stronger
then the great wall of China,
you are a king of the night.

Music in your head is grace,
love is sweet in your mouth,
Stars seen in your eyes are
the celestials of the heavens;
your muse is the god of perfection.

You are the art in appreciation,
you are the streams of knowledge,
the movement of your hair by the air
is the orbiting voices of the angels,
the earth can not even home your skull.


Dance of your feet are tale of love
writing from home to home for peace,
your beads glitter and glow for sanity.
Moonchild, moonlight of tomorrow,
We are the song of your yesterday.


Moonchild, moonlight of the gods,
Through your destiny we can build,
Yesterday made us a fool; fools
Pocketing our groaning lies to fault
Come, take us home where you live.


©John chizoba vincent