Posted: October 28, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

A final tribute

Seven lives you had
Over some woven tethered
Of ancient  mended clothings
They were your left fingers rings
On your brows they hide there feet
Your lips harboured their white stars
Glowing fine on your soft sleeves
Kimola, your life was seven.

Your heart did whispered to me
It jittery voice bruised my mild
Mild, my mental of royal scheme
But the songs seemed of Nightingale’s borrowed
Albeit my mild still bleeds of the bruises
Now that your steps have missed the ground
And you are gone, gone to pity my adversaries
Kimola, shall you still come?

I asked of you at the backyard
Bloodshed were my clock’s time
Tears were my Cheek’s golden polish
Backyard brothers grayed my page with your dirge
Then, your mem’ries whipped my conscience to weep
But the tears still were my comfort
Yea, on a pedestal of selfish blues
Kimola! Shall I again behold you?

I knew your first life
It was made of finely brewed jealousy
Writhe in hierarchical chauvinism
Its tyranny humbled soon the second
The breathes from the thirds’ nostrils got aglow
Its flames choked them when others were yet born
Even when others came, they dare not speak
Their heart was a resident of their lips.

Did the callous sixth eventually fight?
Fight to save the fourth from thirds’ cruelty?
Your seventh, immature, weary to strive
And yet inflicted the innocent fifth
Kimola! How soon your waters ran off!
Seven congenial lives, of mysteries
But the lives were arrogant to live
For their stay with you came so malignant.

Unending joy seemed, the ground’s countenance
Your mouth-maggots scheming, Ground acquainted
Albeit of sweetness your response once tend
The hue of your Hyde shy to glory
Perhaps it’s saddened courtesy of your rest
Not your rest, but your seeming cowardice
Your extinct dreams that roared, though covert
Kimola, I yet glimpse bright your spirit!

I knew not if gloating your heart desires
But my euphoric bloods has journeyed South
The ice have fainted their arrogant hues
Fosterage harangues to ameliorate
Too weak my sun seems; Sorrow stupors me
My quest hope to banish this thoughts of you
Till my heart find rest where your abode sites.


©2014 ~ AdamsMurphy®

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