The fountain Arena

  T he pain that surrounds us do not spare our beloved ones, As we share the same burden and ecstacy together. This fosters  the 'why' that makes our affection lingers. Same goes with our immediate environs, where the natural objects such as rain and the land joins in our anguish party. The metaphoric usage of the desolate land where people weep non-stop is liken to the pain one felt when things goes bad in their most treasured station of abode(land or home). Share in this sensation with the poet as he embarks on the journey of pain together .   The ocean has saturated our land; Carcass of precious sewage inviting Offspring of alphabeta to trade with us  In the annual feast of the eye's flood. Here we are, lords of swollen lashes. Kissing the blended sail of craving pant For decaying ages that shone our nodes Before our first withdrawal was made Click to read  caged  Together we sang duet of scorn From our distance crest In union cries that pierces the skin Sweating myster

Waiting for a marathon quest; Feasting on every page gallery; Holding up to the wandering gaze  In ecstatic pleasures. Wanting nothing but wit  In its purely refined form undilute. Yet, it all seems like stargazing Forgetfulness another gazing   Guest we've welcomed quietly Even solid relics are now antics I read; you read; we've burnt the night adroitly, When our eyelashes clap tirelessly before resting. How, how can we sail on our utopic cosmos ? How, how can we? How can we manoeuvre our errors quest, When all pathways are made of steel maze; When our sensory power house suffocates, Bleeding floods to cool its tensed nerves. How can we, you unruly child? Now, Let's hold hands no more,  As your romantic journey ends with me. Forgive our unborn treasure Whose pride I've hoped to guide privily From your seductive gaze Till you die in desolate . Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read  Previous post  from same poet. Next post Photo credit: pexel

The panic of geminating age Angers the mounting desired sage Of bittersweet years swum On the facade of earth waters Filling every benchmark of missed trophies. The taste of primitive success hops  ceaselessly, Flouting the worldly pen Standard in light of favoured tropes making the soft momma's cheek drenched As I drink from her endless eulogies; Papa's thumb hit the soft spot The little red ink stained my bed  With sorrowful pun of happy and sad Motion the dripping tears watered The earth milk villa, enjoying each drop Until the morning light set up Swallowing the mist feast for a level pop. Age clocks struck 12 filled with dreams  It strode towards 16 fishing the world tales  Then at 19 basking the profile of the status  Till 20 came with test and service  Now the restless tick-tock beats the 22 chimes Recounting season and times. Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read other exciting poem from the same poet here View Previous post

We have hosted men of delight  With hands of gold and  adroit Colossal heads of invented saint And company of sinister fellow Our day has sucked the night And the night swallowed by the sun Speaking of the Sodom myth seat  Laying ego of flagged song Yester amelioration shed our pants Now, we don't dream of our nirvana seas Now, we are beaten by your plague Not anymore you foster child of vanity  We've  grown wings  Our heart has received suits  We now ride in ceaseless praise We've set sail for a new eternity Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read also Life  At 22 Photo by pexel Previous post

  As the dark night dim my soul ride in a wet  celestial canoe. sailing deeply on,  awaiting the morn of my funeral. I have leap a thousand times  for the day of my demised  which, reached sooner,  as autumn wind. deliberately piercing my nude skin now it's dawn, my lifeless creature lay still in world most adore ornaments. epithet that soar in a passer-by  lazy consciousness wit, commune "world of Fortune has he dwell, mundane guest of mercy gain birth " beyond, a golden silhouette spoke. "have the world prime  yielding endless starts still holds you?" morn of departure still lingers how should it be this morn? why would this brusque knave  ameliorate me in my hope valley? where would my  weeping senile lady  weary hand holds now soul journey began where the paths leads is yet unknown but my saint testament guide me on. Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Click here to view next post Read: Lucid Photo credit: pexel