The fountain Arena

 My lamp of love burns for you; thou host of morning shine. who satisfy all flesh a new  giving love in exchange for pew. you are Yeshua, my friend and king Yeshua, thou sagacious king of men  comfort my spirit; soul; and death in that mansion soiled with breath  that speaks symphony and fun mighty Yeshua, my friend and king  Melt my spirit today and forever.  lighten my suffering heart in that voices of yours salute my nothingness in  grace and service listen not to my mundane plead when it comes  oh! my Yeshua, my friend and king. Ayeni Taiwo  ©2022 Read weather for Two Next post Image by pexel

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

  A fortress we are made; Through the mounting praise  We have raised To the triune canonical lord. Whose hands have raised our lives. By one man we are beaten  By another, we have risen  In his heart, he lifts the unsound soul Fasten to the boundless pit again  At a priceless sinner prided pain. Soft and slowly; mundane and strong, Solo and brass, chord and string; The heart that's bruised is here to sing, New worship, of a new age. Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read: Other poems from this blog Previous post Photo credit: pixebay

Our souls wake on a Sunday morn Budding up with its maker con The bell chime in a crescendo Saying a cryptic psalm in piano Of hymn or a solo lines Making my Sunday morn merriments. We pam the word on a Sunday morn Daring the sun to play the pipe  Bouncing in places in symphony Blending the Clergy lyric with the pipe Piping a sonorous phone I won't ask my maker money on a Sunday morn For I saw his angel on this dawn With forty frosty miles bands of lost directors Swapping notes in melodious rhymes As we chants the Sunday morn ode Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read:  other poetry from this blog Previous post Photo credit: pexel

  He who owns all souls; Comfort me still , Melt my wounded spirit , Inspire my wandering heart. He who owns all souls  Make my sun  blue and gold  Built in your vineyard  Filled with a desire against the world. He who owns all souls; Save my suffering eyes  To see your merciful sides  In comforting mounting cries. Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read: Other poetry from this blog previous post  Photo credit: pexel