He took out a stick and blazed to the sky
he made clouds from his mouth as birds dived through to find way.
His looks were toxics as his words glued all that listened in.
“Winks made branches,
branches clinged to moisture,
the wind cleared the air”.

Lay in there, I can find a way.

My words slapped his emotions
he retaliated with a revenge on bottles
endlessly suckling the sweetness of labels of wild percentages.

Not before long, he lost the way and dinned with the world.
It was only a moment when the pockets run cut
His usefulness was less than the tree that gives shades
soon the paths faded away and goodness shrinked past his recognition.
All was lost and life became empty like the bottles he ruined
The far East blocked his sunshine now darkness opened doors to him.
Farewell tomorrow people, abide with the play of today no more.
Illusions circled his soul and so his fight lost in vain.
Birds came down on him amidst a pool of hopless mares, they so sang for him ......Go home-boy
To his wonder was the home of struggle or the home of the creator!