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CROSS THE RUBICON By IFEMENI CHRISTIAN DERRICK WHITE

In the beginning of the end

if a soul is soiled beneath

the grave of one’s death

how can one bear fruits

Out from pure dust?

 

Passion is the word and life, that harbors pages

into broken births, made of chapters

that burns in lock, stock and barrel ages

in the flames of one’s mental inscriptions.

 

Passion is that passionate physician, constructing

the minds of these plebs

into finished muses

like to cudgel one’s brain

on broken back-grounds.

 

Click here for poems on Passion 

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