The Ripest Fruit Is Saddest Poem by Godspower Oshodin

The ripest fruit is saddest
Fallen from roaring tempest.
Dropped on ground of historic pain
Smeared on rout of disdain.

The mighty tree beget of nothing for us
Our hope is slender when harvest comes to us.
The only eye remaining looks at famine
That this tenacious man is no longer determine.

We now retreat and go back to work
Returning under the heat of the darkest cloak.
They have pummeled the warrior, but left his glory
Reading from the pages of veiled story.

The old story teller is short of words
His ferocious contest with death is slim as cord.
Old age is not halting the confessor moment
To the birth of his words, his progeny will lament.

And the great wrestler is back from battlefield
And glory is for only those who bid.
And yet the fruit has fallen in the evil forest
And Yes! ”The ripest fruit is saddest”