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.
Copyright © Sunday Ameh | Year Posted 2008
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