Poetry with well-heeled essence.

Power Crisis, Sunday Evening, The house is a tiny passage in the depths of a mountain at night, No one is having their phone we just relocated to fourteen twenty eight, It’s Africa we don’t know about a torch light. Oh yes there is a power cut at home. Everyone is busy bothering about their business. Trying to be alive and abide by the bearings, No, it’s just not working out. Seeing that it’s dark as the mind of a thief who is about to snatch a pretty lady’s  handbag in town. I move prudently lest I spill the soup and scatter the supper cause I’m serving. All of a sudden, I became naive and my mind is pampered with kid stuff, They challenge me just as how the Israelite's were challenged with Goliath the Buff, I dig into the past and extract my cousin reel off on the witch who covers herself in the pot’s. I realize that I’m having some pot’s on my tray, so I pose, I begin to wonder in what pot the witch might be poking her nose, Abruptly,

I see our chat head drop as water would sink in sand, I try to squeeze it out but it only gets my hands damp. I keep upbeat just as a seed would give in all and dive in the damp grounds hoping for growth. For I see our chat head sprouting all the way to the peak when I hit up with a “hey there!” I’m still suspicious and skeptic though on the significance of the sprouting. For my “hey there!” sends a single tick but it’s about us to produce it’s significant other “√√” And so it’s a train on a single rail as a trail it’s surely going to stumble, I see it roll down into the deep valleys and I can’t do nothing. The constructor comes in just as group alerts. And the waste is dumped to the apex, How do I pull it up I’m only a boy with no proper muscle, I call in to customer care for assistance just to tell me that number is off. Wait what? I call in again and still get the same response. It tears apart my blue heart. Like UB40 I take in Red wine thinking you woul