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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Thursday, 16 January 2014

The pearls of love.

We dig deep-
scavenging grounds for a mineral called love.
Yet as we toil digging up mounds of dirt,
our one true love supports us as we try to leave.

She plasters our injuries like Florence nightingale,
after we have worked our shovels like miners-
failing to hark, the loud siren warning us
that love in dark mines is bound to collapse over us.

She holds her lamp to guide the way like a light house
as she watches you try to Oprah win-win,
as you swim in deep sea, Micheal pheeling yourself,
scuba diving trying to discover "precious love."

She watches and prays for you like Mother Teresa;
you're an inquisitive youth struggling on your mission.
She tells you, "Little flower, Do not rush to bloom.
Seek God on your journey and it'll not be in vain,"

She holds you from birth, moulds you to take on earth,
hoping that one day you will be an Obama,
yet you wander away trying to find your Michele,
to precede you yet love should preside and guide you.

She used to sing you to sleep like Beyonce,
and let you feel her halo embedded with x's and o's.
ayeh, you're now out their looking for ivy,
so she can sting you and leave you for dead.

We dig deep, skin deep,
yet wander far away,
from what we are fond of-
trying to find love,
love that has not been gifted to us.
Yet after being conceived and delivered,
we set our eyes on a gift of love;
Mothers; the pearls of love.

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