July 16, 2021


Written by Charles Njikonye

Golden moon— low hanging— glistens on its edge, this nighttime
Souls, speed to catch comets/ invoke wishes to come true; because, in daylight, no comet will be seen— jet.

Lifeline floats like thread in gale— no exact direction
Eyes should fit hope/ not esprit blown like powder from air-dry palms.

Living is race to grave/ 6 feet below.

Horse, man— beautiful
Whilst, death awaits the end of this race.

On this darting skies/ humming tune, living becomes story of how/ what you died.

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