Sunday Ameh Poet I do not know?

Remorse

when i've sang with a harsh voice
tear the drum and quench the choir 
for the  flesh is quick to curse
 what seems like a mirage of the 
desert                                                                                                                                        

 i shall go under a shady tree
with a sour note and wrinkled hymn
wave to the moment stream
and count myself too weak

and i shall curse the birds that fly and the beak that squack 
and i shall put a stone to my catapult
shoot! for this ,re wierd sound.

Then I shall sing and beg
am not a perfect one
i wish my emotions weren,t cast to my edge,
to tear the drums and quench the choir,
for they spring life.

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