It was in the morning as usual. When the eagles hoof and birds sing. And to the morning dew,the trees had their drops of leaf littered on the ground.
Being a winter morn however changes its uniform of being usual as others. Every household had its warming furnace burning with coal.
The morning colds made Many shiver that you could hardly see people without putting on cardigan.
My hands shook and my legs rattles in pain. The morning walk and jogs round the town would do this and goddamn the pains in a early morning.
I rushed at my boots, jersey and socks.
And while i was on the morning jogs. The thoughts approached my heart,and my brain kept them ruminating resoundingly.
I could hear echoes of words hunting my peace.
Lo! Here it comes, the voice. ‘And can it be? A voice could still hunt my peace?’
In these weariness tuned in and left me in an aqua of disillusionment.
My soul purchased to the world of insanity.oh!
I stopped by and had some bread,butter and coke. Perhaps twill get my thirst quenched and hunger fed.
- The voices were there ,loud,and forcefully echoing.I had at sometimes prayed that my head be bursted to this plight and leave me dead.
But death comes not so easy.
The odd of all was the heat my body releases at some point. Hot enough to boil some eggs.
Burying my heads into cold waters adds more to my grief and in these i sorrow in pain.
Daily have I spent hours,by pools,and running waters. If I could by them gain some relieve,my heart would have been strong and joy in them.
All to no avail!
If medications were to cure and prevent. This have i tried and on it emptied my purse to penury. On it have i lavish my all and gather none of comfort.
Here, from the rising hours to the set of sun I sits at the Balcony of agony and watches mercy fly away to a thousand mile.
Each minutes had my prayers that my soul rest and live my grave if all I would live for is hell on earth.
Clerics had their prayers and fasts.
‘slam and Faith. Both have i tasted. In fetish huts have i sprinkled blood, and toasted sacrifices to gods.
If dead or alive I can’t relate. They had me called waste.
On to which generation i’m i born?
Who hath my stay for months in her tommy?
Who hath the keys to the luck of my peace?
If mapped,can I to my comfort zone trace?
These are questions I nurse each moment of rest not lasting for seconds.
When grown worse and at peak,
I had walked the streets naked, and caused nuisances .
I had my hair unkempt and body perfumed with bad odours that kept flies in company.
I had romance with love on dumping grounds and adored my self with waste from homes.
Years have I spent in these .
Is there any reason for my living as a being?
If it be, name it coincidence.
I’ve heard some publicity of it that crusaders are in town.
And large crowds were converged to them.
But my spirit would never bid a stay.
All I know I do was out of sanity.
In chain and shackles, was I bound. I had wounded some men at the process and fought forcefully.
Led to the man.
He wore a big nose and on it rest a goggle.
I spoke vanity and mocked his faith.
Indeed,spirits fought within me and had my back on the ground.
His hands were laid on me
And from there I woke into reality.
A dream from my sleep.