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 May 2017 Chris Obiora
scribler
I wondered
donkey
out aloud
- not fields and floors
and kids upon lacking skills?

On this earth
Of ours
small men
growing not strong
but weak
of word and will?

what say you
donkey?

are they still?
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
scribler
Things
black in the day
turn blue
in the night

they become
darker still
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
scribler
One thing I do know is that
I am not surrounded by a circle of stones
nor screaming hordes
dancing
tonight
tonight I am alone
I am a circle of stones
And you all
are not within me.
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
scribler
A crowd of men at your boots,
and I leave you all, to your party.
To return here, where you are not,
and sit. As the entire world collapses.

All around you, completely. I see only light.
All else fell down. You are left, alone,
amidst the rubble and dust of my dreams,
with me lighting my life with your eyes.

You sit there, unaffected by the devastation,
and here, devastated, I see all of the ways
I cannot enter that space, leap into that dark,
without disturbing the nature of your game,
and bringing you too to ruin.
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
Samuel
Lucid
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
Samuel
a young man
/ lost

and then a voice
/ do not tire of me

for I will bring many things to delight and
/ astound you

//

grown now
/ cynical with age

the promise fallen
/ flat like fresh
/ paper

all the while
/ a nearby smile steadily
/ moving closer
 May 2017 Chris Obiora
scribler
The locals gather
Forever
Watching the
King's head
Swinging.

Like a sign
Of something
Or event
Never to happen.
Cloud on the mountains. Rain
in the valleys. Mist between
the trees.

An old man leads a horse
between dry stone walls.
He is followed by a small
white dog & a capering
spirit. He raises his cap
as we pass & the rain falls
even harder.

Looks like weather, says
the spirit. Aye, says the
dog. And there'll be no
sun till Monday earliest.
Tuesday if we're unlucky,
says the horse. And Sunday
if we're not, says the
old fella, replacing the
cap on his head.

— The End —