Imaged As A Broken Plinth

 after Ps42.11

& my spirit calligraph into chronicles of defiance. 

that I mean my tongue now holds coals of revolts.

I brim of a heart with porosity and dementia.

Say, this poem is a personal pronoun of the 

things that weigh in abstracts. what assuages a

man flinching the epoch of miracles? have you 

ever watch a man cowered into a bowed head? 

Is like the annulment of bows and arrows. his

mien, spines in the vineyard of stale flowers. his

body slithers into calluses of a desert. say a verb 

that serenades cactus petals into a sonnet. that

my soul may avalanche to grace. do you know 

how best to tame the billows of grief? at dawn,

my manness is a cautery of gauze-like things. 

I ramp into a broken plinth of self teething the

questionnaires of hope with a drawling intense.

look soul, tell me this verse can spring hisbis-

cus in a land ambushed with grisly tongue of 

thistles. reteach me to conduct amnesty to an 

innerman heralding the many noises of a delf.

© Chinemerem Prince Nwankwo