stephen maina Poet Suzette Prime

Metamorphosis of the Lost

I met hunger in the cradle,
wrapped in lullabies laced with quiet.
She kissed my lips with the taste of lack,
whispered my name in echoes.

I found her again by the river,
where children cast wishes like stones.
She held my hands, scarred and trembling,
taught me to drink from empty palms.

Through hollow halls and borrowed beds,
she walked beside me, humming loss.
Her voice, a blade against my ribs,
her touch, a wound I called my own.

And yet—
beneath the wreckage of her love,
I gathered embers from the ash.
Sharp-toothed longing carved me hollow,
but in the void, I built a home.

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