Image source; The Chronicles 📝📖📖
The speech is a traveller,
yapping yarns like a weaver,
but bleeding truth and lies
we're left in daze, flowing like river,
till the moon begins it's honeymoon,
the heart is a silo,
filled with memories of pain,
memoirs of misery,
a spark of laughter dressed like doom
Our soliloquies are followed by rain,
gushing down the cheek's terrain,
we're hunted by our biography,
written by the scissors-like tongue
of this damned world,
we can't speak of lustful love,
because it's like a dagger to the soul
we've been raped by our conscience,
and left bare to burn in the sun
Our Chronicle,
is written by ours truly,
a life forlorn as the desert,
we've drank from regret's flagon,
writhing in our vomit like a viper,
choking from a sweet delicacy.
we've been undone by the things we've done,
stabbed by the swords we've forged
Our bones are flaccid with age,
but still our chronicle is yet to finish,
the tongue is hungry to wriggle,
wiggle of tales that brings penury,
to the surface of the eyes,
still, we will tell tales,
of nightingales and of stormy gales
we will tweet like egrets,
and wail like a wounded dolphins
until silence becomes king again.
Written & Edited
By @Josediccus
6/2/2019
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JOSEPH C.IKECHUKWU
