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01/07/2019 5:39 pm
INKLESS JUNE
My pen seems too rot
There was an ink drought
It couldn't bleed fresh blood
It couldn't tread on a book board
My pen was inkless
In June it was fruitless
Not a stanza could my pen conceive
Nor a line could it make to live
It was an inkless June
With days in a hunger tune
My books turns to a rocky ground
Every thoughts scrawled died
Just like a dry tree
That couldn't produce fruits
Or like a dry stream, flea
That couldn't produce a water to quench our thirst
Have my pen been for a score and ten days
Alas, an inkless June birthed a promising July
Sweet is thy beginning duty
Honey will be thy end day
©Israel Onoruoiza
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