by: Yilkal Abate
we can no more than smoke until the flame return
the spirits in smoke ascended to high heaven,
by the cruelest way of pain,
for those stationed to the left of you
It wasn't that.
Your genial spirits fail,
in a slumber
perhaps a berebaso, i'll give you that,
for a rare rhyme
that was pulled by oxen
a trim of self to the storm of time.
It was more a squeeze,
that made us sh**.
The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven.
the agony of bloody sweat,
the voice of love with tongue of flame recording your charity. Your hearts, your lives right willingly you gave
It wasn't that which became so prevalent
but it was..
Reasoning upon its own dark fiction,
in doubt which is self-contradiction
The verb who died in every mood and tense for the noun,
were I a predator of poor thoughts
this body of hers, making itself a stronghold,
ceasing from mental fight, Nor my verbal sword sleeping in my hand
leaving a legacy of ebbing veins,
Inconstant heat and nevertheless reining,
The quest for certainty blocking the search for meaning,
of the endocrine system
Are you paranoid now?