The air beneath my feet is made of bricks
I could tell just from the feel
With each step tempting a peel
You melt my heart to stone
My soul crushed to bone
To the skies I cry via telephone
Dooms day I wish to postpone
Save me the drone
Make me a clone
Right outta my rib cone
Or at least fix me this hone
Same which I have and do hone
Lest I writhe 'n moan
Sick am I of my very own tone
By now, Your light should've shown
None other have I got
You alone fuel my breathing gut
Boy, am I an-hungred...venison of Your pot
Signaled Verizon, safe in cot
Pass me not "Sire Gentle"
Cast thy sight to behold my tears
Hear my humble cry
©Adejobi
Israel Oreoluwa
No comments:
Post a Comment