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He isn't the moon,
But its sultry glow

He isn't the sun,
But its shine

He isn't the clock,
But its time

He isn't the hands,
But the holding

He isn't the poem,
But its rhyme

He isn't love,
But my heart
I’m still in awe at* the fact
that I can stand straight,
I can’t tell if I’m mindless
or spineless, whenever I’m
asked to leave, I leave
I never slam the door,
when I’m asked to come back
I drop what I’m doing and knock,
the door isn’t always answered
and that’s what picks away
at my backbone,
I stay planted
on the same doormat I’ve
tainted with leaving footprints,
steadfast shinsplints are nails on
chalkboards,
I keep running,
but you know I’ll be back,
keep that doormat clean.
Sweet tamarind pods stick to the warm black tarmac
where fortunate doves wander about in the shade,
trilling to themselves, and each other.

Either something strikes them as funny,
or they just love their easy lives.

Certainly, they sound so different from their
modest cousins, cooing sadly in colder places.

Born here in Paradise, these birds wear blue
eye shadow every day, and not just on weekends.

Late afternoon finds me in their lazy midst,
hair wet and curling, sand stuck to my bare, tanned feet.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
 Apr 2016 Chijioke Nnamani
jalc
It's in the act of
Unlocking the front door
Leaving the chill of the outside
For the warmth of home

It's in the dog that comes
Snuffling happily at your feet
The cat that pads up quietly
Reluctantly curling around your ankles

It's in the bowl that sits
Still warm in the microwave
And the accompanying note
Wrapped around the spoon

It's in the moment
Of stepping into the shower
And letting the hot spray
Wash the day's grime and cares off

It's coming home to you
Snoring under the covers
Smelling like soap and sleep
As you wake up a little
To tug me closer and kiss me goodnight
Instead of sending, I burnt all the letters I have written for you
Thinking that what I wrote there will turn into ashes too
Wishing that my feelings will disappear into the scorching flame
But the fire betrays me, as the letters are burning, I am burning too
It becomes worse and it only doubles the pain
How can I burn those memories without burning myself too?
I was burning too...
Darkness hiding in the tree's.
A lonely crossroads.
No man's land.
Ancient rituals.
Ancient tortures.
Blood,
upon the soil
and sand.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Seeking out somewhere to lie.
A lonely soul,
lost with the seasons.
Underneath
a blood red sky.

And as the blood dries,
on the tarmac.
A winning smile, a wicked fate.
Gypsy ghosts,
no longer vocal.
Shadows waiting
at the gates.

Through the hills,
a shadow seeker.
Lost upon the darkness still
A lonely soul,
Lost with the seasons,
Forever lost
and wandering.
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