You count for a ripe fruit
And yet tick to its rot.
I, while in life-box you ticked nine,
I gathered I got so savaged…
Savaged to live forever;
Lo, I see you count my days.
The moon hides behind the clouds,
Stars shyly lay in the shadow,
Thunderbolts set the sky ablaze,
Farm-folks become dramatic,
All like been jammed by meteors:
They dare not the dreads of seasons;
Spooky seasons, the outcome of time.
Why summon not to grace, time,
But tie our impulses to grave call?
Why not spare us bear our desires,
But have your tickings beckon hades?
Why leave us uninformed at twilight,
But break our bones before dawn?
Why dawn and dusk?
Why rain and drought?
Why falling and recovery?
Why now and then?
Why fromever and forever?
Why wine time?
©Benjamin Harrlett Bamidele