It Chanced

It chanced, that
beneath the silence
of a transit cockcrow,
the blessed grace of time,
I saw him engulfed;
the sadden face of
sadder eerie moans,
it ate through him, fully,
the mist of barren dreams.

Oh, it is true,
mankind is a dream being,
dreaming tresses him,
but when will he touch
his dreams? When will
his side of the flicked
perfect coin fall on his
laps to ordain him?

In silence he melted
beyond desire and longed
for little choices which empty
dreams had already hollowed.
He was moved to inner madness
by his souls porous passions
against his brittle dreams;
thirsty for relief from inner slaughter.

I saw his dreams listless
on the streets, and heard
him wail in his spleen, but
he self consumed his pain,
lest he devulged too much
his victimness to one who
had often taken part in
his solemn cast of shadows:

Heaven Only knows what
inner scar ruins him.

by Agboyi Felix

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