It felt like dead roses,
Until the corrosive spat of the wind
Washed itself on the dark wall of delight.
now turned into a turmoil of gaze.
A calotype of pain
Cleaving hard unto a mist of a radiant gloom.
The bells rang,
Pointing up to the sky
Frozen by midday.
Shadows of night pleaders wait
Behind the windows of thought.
A foamy sovereignty of wisdom,
A stream flowing through an
A stare from the loops of discernment
Just like an ocean of lust
Dribbling from the cold cavities of her chest.
Between always and never,
the night turned into an amity of truth.
With the heaven craving for a song.
PRISCILLA NUEKI QUARSHIE.