Of Hearts And Epochs Pained - Poem by Wesongah David
(To the pained one, and for angel in bloom)
A life churned on a loved glock,
Promised an understanding lock,
Expressed by woe, though unto fine a maiden,
Just like the sad daffodils dancing by my window,
Of life on labor’s own portraits confessing – a coming.
Sadness inherently fluid and pure,
A demand withered on a lulled bloom,
Whether a classic serenade tucked in the hearts,
A sound justice unto mankind for your life’s worth,
As urge tempts solid grains of tears to futility.
The need a loyal command to buds,
Drawn on a heightened chalice of pain,
A life maligned to an enduring grace in the rain,
Oft nicked to trends and anniversaries roughed by terrain,
And the likes of somber heavens to which I’ incline.
Whether plain thoroughbreds nosed to Bacchus own swings,
Wined on rowdy lengths of the deeds by your heart,
And a state of mind blown by sods of depth tender,
Sadly the many of which we can relate to,
On gloomy scythes calling out the golden grasses.
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