In slant and well carved hole
Was it buried in a mild coal
As names do cleft on tomb
On wall, was its speech dumb
That, I supposed was a number
An address, waiting for its finder
Clenched in front of the building
In hope not to fade of it’s bleeding
The drooped paint pootled in shy
But that, I guess could be of the sky
As it veiled her off the dusty stains
To weather the shame of her pains
My flat needs no stress to be noticed
A few step from ego, then proceed
There, stood my lame door in pride
A shame I really wish I could hide
The drained ink of my witty room
Has accused me of her daily doom
With words well spelt on blank scrolls
She scorns the glory days of my roles
I used to live in words than numbers
When wits used to glint in her embers
In grace would my quill stand as a buff
And nobles would hatful stoop to doff
I was once a noble tenant of muse
Never had my ink ever faded in use
I wonder how now it refuses to drip
But has yours ever loosen its grip?
Written by: Agu Cross
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
