A Narrative

I clutch to a narrative until I learn its sound of quiet,
Ended by wanting what’s right, no malevolent riot.
Seldom it halts! Often, it drifts-silk like the Nile.
We all need a rhyme that buds to sunlight’s smile,
Painted but not the painting’s attributes of unfeeling.
Anguish is nausea snaking up-throat, refuting healing;
And the tongue denies the bitterness of honey,
Honey turns briny? You fret. Body’s seas swell scummy,

All hope, though built to withstand any storm,
A moment to moment, it chips to flotsam, forlorn.

These seas plummet through the eyes,
Its salt dries the sweetness in the mouth to cries.
All that once was brilliant verdure aiming for fruit,
Now withers on this saline and muddy field, mute.

Excuse me. I was drifting again on long term effects,
Of what injustice does to a body. A lover, too, connects.
Now back to the painting, but we’ll not dwell on it,
See it, leave it, turn to the light falling in your eyes bit;
Scrutinize your nature, learn where or when
You can be bold with kindness over and again.

Oh, please do not go blind now with claims,
You cannot grasp the painting or the allegory it frames,
Lest you trick yourself out of compassion into helplessness;
Skim the direction of your frisbee before recklessness.

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should my words collide with your heart in a dance of chance, my noble deed is complete. thank you for stopping by. call me Wanj ! © 🌻💕🌼

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Wanjiku Wanjiru

Wanjiku Wanjiru

should my words collide with your heart in a dance of chance, my noble deed is complete. thank you for stopping by. call me Wanj ! © 🌻💕🌼