Healing
Poets often loose their groove
When entities dearest to them cease to be
when their natural instinct
to think wayward
fades away
and the remedy for artistic loss is unheard off
Life loses its jazz thereof
I was at cross roads some times back
on a pilgrimage on horse back
as told of by Robert frost
We play with words and bake love
but are we to also have the cake
we affix novels on single scripts
but are our conquest worth a headline
We decode the language of love
to those alien to mammalian emotions
find meaning to each ripple
of the saline seas of a humane pupil
I had my third eye plugged out
My endowment, my gift, my artistic touch, my woman
the whole subscription, cut off
She wasn't your average Cinderella
no, she was rocked in blue jeans
nothing close to a face portrait
she barely graced any make up
her face undefiled
Her scent sweat and pure passion
Lips of a new born, only hardened
Buy the equatorial rays of the suns glare
She was an endorsement of true beauty
at the threat of double standards
this century swor to alianate
Took just a stare
Fate on two feet
To heal a brocken pen
Copyright © Kizito Mbai | Year Posted 2017
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