Passage Poem by Emmanuel Acheampong

This is your infinite ode
reflecting only this moment;
the lightheaded muse of my worn-out pride
living under my unwell shelter,
filled with the jumbled plates of unbalance,
with no solace in this world,
daunted by the war-torn assurances,
and broken sounds of alluring utterances,
I give you every morning
dreaming your life away
through my strained and exotic mind.
But you still have your firm grip on me
with those foul things in your satchel,
carried by your grime hands,
as you drag yourself in the mire,
with your soiled feet,
going nowhere from here,
from the directions of your defiled eyes,
helpless even with your happy face,
beneath the sad aspect I clearly see,
clouded from the very distant rest.
How I hate your figure:
Who you've become;
though I still have you to thank
for lending me your dearly-won view;
view to this unfitting world.
So I pray for more days
ladened not with your hopeless waits
for the hours to rather bide.
And from herein I shall learn to appreciate you
for your love has been unconditional
with no icing atop your truth
for only you reflect me
through mind, body and soul.