Nichola Okoro

Liturgy in Cruet I´m a writer and classical musician from Ng

Your dream dies before you think it
Your hope lies recumbent as the refrain barely begins
You get blind when the light is to be your friend

Happiness in a room beckons on you
But it’s the abstract stupid species
May happiness never be blissful

You’ll kill dejection even if you be a prisoner
Attitude enslaves you your spouse
Your thought sights it an enemy

Your tears strips you of bliss
Your cheeks shall testify for history
And in dust utopia is vanquished.
The seven stars of bliss be my chain
My reasons free to childlikeness
It’s not a world where food suffices

It’s not a world I count my fingers
Not the clouds of turpitude being my rival
But metaphysics my only usher

The science of nature my chaperone
The law of exercise that precursor, my espionage
Solitude the only friend I have on earth

Look me on that path the loner never lonely
If I became formidable, he instinct of mating
Shall I give euthanasia.

If grace is to be approached, escutcheon calls
Euphony of the symphony the apparel of angels
And eschatology the scale

I feel maddened by this idiotic exercise
I no longer dream ‘cause they’re ineffective
Born again on workaholism just thinking

My chest dies of heart attack
My brains perceives every thing the nose can
I lay on the sofa till the morrow dawn

You pronounce it serenity
You define it meticulousness
The interim where interludes occur

You killed the low spirit, but the sun
The colourless sun acts as de ja vu
The cobwebs in your head makes busy again

You’ll recall your mien on the altar of banishment
On the mien of strangers ‘cause your mind paints
You want dream, heroism, to defend the casualties


Isn’t it just a missile that divides necks
An iroko tree couldn’t have been felled
You jump the drainage when those who sever tread

Infirmities upon your soul, kneel to supplicate
Dear lord, your eyes never slumber ‘cause
Nightmares of your deeds spank conscience
Flaccid of dehydrated throat, head
The tongue evades the salty liquid
Which travels from the eyes enticing the

You could be a gladiator but you’ve honour
You could look like the slave but you’re the warrior
Effort of your heart a cistern that teaches you

Time is troublesome to the pendulum
You no longer hear its sound like the belfry
But genuflect, gazing the sky like one intoxicated by lust

Let the earth know this atmosphere of pride
Let the earth reveal this natural ninth cloud
Earth, your contortion is ironic

Tell them this age is the first generation
Tell them thinkers have their interludes
Thinkers, you recall that room you commune with me
You think of honour, the other side of dust
You think of spirits, their sonority and mellifluous strain
You think of perfection which makes man utopic

And you think of journey which only suicide
Never makes oblivion and you become the cruet
And your lip caressing liturgies

The audience hears you singing with emotion
Emotions are respects for memories
And you lay down still insinuating the coffin

You see meadow with awesome greens
You se those you ask to await you
You have itched to meet spirit guard

He prostrated handing the olive
But embitterness from his function
Forced you to suspend him: he sobbed.

But you can’t be deceived like before
You can’t be bequeathed confusion
Let the wind play on for the meadow to dance

Let the wind play on for your refreshment
To commensurate. Let mercy be your witness.
Let eschatology over rule its recurrence.



Todos los derechos pertenecen a su autor. Ha sido publicado en a solicitud de Nichola Okoro.
Publicado en el 02.02.2009.


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