The Joy Of My Cradle Poem by Bonaventure Onuabuchi

At the thought of my home my mind shrinks,
And much more it does when my phone rings!
For that melodic voice that will bless has a rhythm that stings,
Haunts my heart, squeezes my blood and drinks.
While I'm needing more blood to wash off my stain,
Offering much of what I do not truly bring
That much more stain I through such benevolence retain.
Now, just like every then, there's this me to strangle the string.
.
Craving for this death that will feed my life with breath
But I cannot like a coward scorn my spring
Nor drink the water that can't till my night repel my thirst
Such Wisdom to posterity will make my name stink.
.
The cradle of me on a swing,
With many unclear sounds stealing my rest,
My mind they fog, with their brute my whole they arrest
That I resort just to the lullaby they sing.
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At the demise of hopes lunges this voice with a sword,
Not to stab me, but the voices that are wrong,
And the inert me, it makes less strong,
That I have me the strength to quest for my stain a full void.
.
With no such fertile soil to link my root,
Through this voice I tap into morrow's light to blind today's night.