My Consolation - By Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

Like a parched soil
like the sands of Sahara
so am I;
Oasis of victuals long lost,
thistles and thorns.
Bereft of lush,of green bereft.
Panting in despair like a thirsty hare,
I stand, bent and helpless,
admiring in sweet anguish,
the beautiful flames of my burning bush.

With weak smiles
drawing wrinkles lines
of uncertainties on my face,
I chew bitter cords of fate
I play bitter chords of fate
on an old stringless guitar.
Why do I suffer?
I starved no one!
You've got the wrong man, karma!
Am I some kinda Christ?
Star with black stripes
sit on my clay crown.
I stay me down, seated on my clay throne.
Is this royalty?
Sympathy, heavens! Sympathy.

What is this stream of peace in my spine?
What's the rush of calm?
From whence comes this psalm
Slipping through my cracked lips?
Oh, peace of mind!

I am left hanging out to dry,
I know
the Son of Righteousness,
My able provider
shall someday on me shine
and turn to vapour
carried by the wind,
the damp wetness
of my lack and long loss.
This is my consolation:
The rainy day shall surely come
at the dawn of dawn.


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