The Pilgrim 

The grim reaper laughs at the pilgrim,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

The vultures laughs at the country,

Grim-covered exterior mirror for rotten core.

Fleas, flies, lice in a perpetual Christmas as

Sweat and tears beads trickle down his spine.

Jackals and Hyenas in eternal feast as

Proletariat begin again, nightly pilgrimage to fuel station.

#WCW: @HMemuna (If I was a writer)

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her svelte gracefulness as she

Knit words on my TL. Tapestries

Of Ideas, Ideals and Ideology.

If I was still a writer,

I would write about her.

Her wry smile, promising

Matriarchal-marinated mischief.

Modern Womanism fleshified.

If I was a writer,

I would write about her.

Her eyes like diamond spheres,

Glimmering globes in a sea of

Placid black lustrousness

But I’m no more a writer.

I can no longer write sonnets to,

Nor Haikus about my crush.

All I can do is stare and blush.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

Thinking if I was still a writer.

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