The Worst Of Me Poem by Bonaventure Onuabuchi

Thorns entwine with the envoy of life.
That its cuddle is another strife.
With no fresh food to fondle the clench of heart,
A huddle of me betrays a painful hilarity.
Hulk of smiles from whose' heaven is bright
Defies my tongue to the dirty thirst of purity.

I dawdle to date a fortune,
whose rose rotteness now rest upon.
A polarity weaves out a rightful wrong.
Misery transcends and the mean man offers his meal.
The tortured truth that helps the heart overcome pinches of prong.
With no wrong to sovereign striking ones star and starving his will.

Life is mired; anchored on how often death sleeps.
Feeding the rarity to breathe shatters hopes in many deeps.
Grace funds fate in its cruelty-
Without the holy wash that defiles honour,
Should I have stick to my stain to save sacred beauty?
When reasons campaign the immortality of the armour.

Now, when the potter's yawn will be short
Wouldn't grey-hair and its splendour be shorn?
When to blight morrow's bane lies its quest

With all the abstract me queuing against their instinct.
Keeping at bay that bay I bask and rest.
But will such splurging save souls, and sorrows be indistint?