I found him there in Mazi Okonkwo's farm
every rainy morning,
sunny noon and cold night,
trying to pull the weeds out of his soul;
Picking and preening,
he pulls on till the sun is sets low.
Raking and plowing,
plowing and raking
the life out of his weary bones.
You can hear from there his groans
as a thorn or two pierce his sole.
He has no answer to the questions
that run like wild wolves
in his aching head,
chasing after swinging shadows.
Six feet under is where he will go
if his silent groans makes an echo.
It's far too bright,
it's far too loud...
He need to sleep somewhere safe from sound:
Eyes shut, just block out the hurt
and sleep soundly six feet underground.
He tries to sweep his guilt out the door,
but the wind blows it back in again.
If only the weeds could die,
If only his dreams could smile,
If only his fears could go,
even for a while...
then the mist of the past shall sink six feet below.
Do you have an article you’ve written or would like to write?
Something else you’d like to share with us on Prose & Poetry Hood?
Don’t hesitate to send submissions to email@example.com or.
Labels: #PoetryHOOD, #StefnSylvester, death, Hurt, Life, Poetry, Regret, Stefn Sylvester