Sheila Nomad (Countdown Timer)

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Beyond the blurry edges

at extreme ends of my focal length

over the far left panorama sights

cinematic lights flash in clash

with flares writhed off a shiny skin

behold I her in a splash and

sited next is her next betroth

smiling in ignorance of what

his immediate destiny holds

a bouquet of scathes just like that 

I've been gnarled in over the years.


Wryly she smiles away

her heart thous of miles away

in a way she used to smile at me

with her bright glistening denture

at a swift paranormal juncture 

as he falls for her juicy charisma

helplessly sighs in surrender

softly carried on in whimpers of

the arrears of an upaid love 

in a futile debenture.


A sensational arrow by ceaserian

cuts through my upper chest skin

deviating slightly away from 

the hard forky rib cage

over to my throbing heart 

blessing it with raven kisses 

leaving it behind with,

only glens of incisions

slightly missing out on

the cortex of my left kidney

touching the lower end of my spine. 


And now they are doing, 

that everything we used to do

she holds his heart in her hands

breathing the same zephyr

lips well-nigh touch each other

with all the oestrus atmosphere

it's evident before my two eyes

that he has fallen deep for her

and the way he calls her baibe

I can tell that he is deeply ripped 

and without her, he can barely live.


I take down on gulps of burrows

along with rushes of adrenaline 

seeing them together just like this

blood in my veins runs to my face

wishing if I could rip them apart

but why a waste of effort yet

rest assured of one thing 

in no time they shall be no more 

her love is like a countdown timer

once the sands sink down

she will be with some other guy. 


Like him I am held up deep

inside her irrational sphere

of an amorphous affection 

ain't over her yet and

I doubt if I once ever will be

same as Jim, Jesper and max

her love is of a chwezi descent

just like a nomadic pastoralist

who moves form here to there

in search for greener pastures

from here you can never tell

where next she may go.





november (the black poet)

*woes of somber hearts*

©2023


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