The Mourners Of Sunday Morning. - Poem by Adeosun Olamide
Where have the worshipers gone?
Have them be guarded away from the place of worship for them in rags?
Or has a perilous hanger or anger snuffed life out in them of dawn?
Or that the sere daisy in its lingering style has them in jags.
For the door that opens unlock for them that in riches,
Each with chains of sin the savior seek,
And if the walls that is of worship founders on the corrupt britches,
The rest that is meager is left a nightmare in hell clique.
Yet remained am I as a fish that is not in water or as a daffodil in desert,
Nor alone am I in the street of thoughtfulness roaming gently in plea,
How before long worship that is of old is off old in season’s era pervert,
Can them that claim to worship be known to me?
What were they like in the regalia of vanity tainted with powdery beauty tartness?
Were they as angels or even as a seraph in those insignia would merry begin,
Many the semblances they hold with a cherub yet they glow in the shadow of immersing darkness,
And nothingness be the burden that lives in their inn.
For in the day, they put on mask of bliss and cover obvious marks with facade,
They hum songs of joy yet croon songs of sorrow inside,
They boogie in styles for expressions of anguish in squads,
And in the day after put self to realism with the modules of sin that is to consume them aside.
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The Mourners of Sunday Morning.
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