Mos. Poem by Wilson Tinotenda Waison

The clock did its mystical art
And the pod cracked to out
The seed bred between the shell
At displeasure,alike a gazelle
With a swiftly graceful onset
And the odd of time to cement

The quest now to mold questions
So confusing that bores accusations.
Was not I the fantasy of April's
Fools,you embraced in drills
Oh was not I the seed sowed
That pleasant night you got laid

Now turns a blot on escutcheon
A family disgrace,third generation
And its tires to have been broken
Strained with wrath, anger, hate
Savage turns this progeny, led astray
Due to the circumstances in play

Faterenounced and twisted
That clear vision of the future so misty
Denied emancipation at tender phases
Duped with emotions so deceitful
Devoid of love and turned
Into a beast by the foster.