Withered Flower Poem by Desmond Okon

The stick and I are partners,
My smooth skin has dropped,
So we are like brothers.
And my hair is no longer the same,
So, we walked the earth together.
The days of strength are mawed,
Puking the long years of weariness.
It is now in the plain,
The death of beauty that
Lanced the hearts of adonis-that pain.
Wizens race to creases, as the
Sun's light fade, you become grim.
Your heart runs slow,
But your broken teeth still hoists
The old smirk to flow.
I see the lads move with valour,
The belles rove for attention with fine flowers,
Then a pain of tiredness pricks me,
As I exude a nostalgic breath- ah, those days!
Albeit my weakness, my rumpled
Skin, my faint sight.
My cracked skull is the home of sages.
This, my lads won't fight.
The inability that trail my time
Does not impugn my foresight.
Coz I have lived the young's time.
Listen!
In this time, broad chests wear a narrow garb,
Even as tough biceps shrink and
Become watery like flooded pap.
Our once orange-shaped breasts,
Face the horror of drought.
They fall flat from frustration, like sapped papaya,
Making the bees cringe from their honey.
Our nakedness has no power,
We have lived it all.
For the desired flower has withered,
And left for death to have its dregs.