Martyr of venom
with loads of guilt; cringing in terror
His heart was heavy
Like the elixir of hope
fiddled with  froth.

With wails so wild and
piecing a feathered pen into his skin.
His woes and miseries;
well crested in the wind
coursing the earth with his fluid.

Agony at the neck of the day
Sobbing whistles from providence
creeping into the cold street
like the last days of the prophet.

His face crinkled in anxiety
poisoned by his own blood.
His lungs are breath-starving
drowning with solemnity
and cuddled by fate.

© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2016