Like a tree in the winter,
grown malnourished, dried and fried by the sun,
without leaves and life,
rooted in the womb of dead soil.
But at the sight of water,
it springs forth. It's root sprouts with life,
its branches births leaves,
and bears many fruits.
Like a dried bone;
a living dead, helpless with no hope of life,
aimless with no goals nor purpose,
wandering like a restless ghost.
But at the glimpse of life,
at the contact with hope and help,
live and light arises from its grave,
arises to life and breathes in joy.
My muse; once dead has been restored,
renewed, regenerated, revitalised,
to breathe life into my pen,
and sing hope to the ears of my audience.
Thank you for your time.
My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.
Still me,
My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.
Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order.
