Of the wraith-like, bald trees
Shooting wearied stares at my rain-barren clouds
As I plead for words to rhyme with rhythm
I beseech thee, heir of wordsmiths
Let ink run through my veins
Fecundate the uterus of my apprentice mind
With the phallus of your quill
Show me the path to the island of KIS
Where the twin doves
Of bare-breasted Muse mother
Seek the healing caress of Apollos
Where the streams ever flow
From the ageless loins of poetry
With the flickering pastiche of the yellow sun
Dancing upon the watery face of the River KIS
I sit at your footstool,
To be taught in classes of printed pages
As I slowly come to see the visions
Of what my words can really do
*For the Author of the poetry collection ‘What Can Words Do?’
Written by: Okechukwu Elosiuba Rhema
