My life becomes mess when I'm not,
life is not that visions I saw when I suck my mother's breast,
Now I'm in ocean of no ground,
Why that mother's mine whisper not in my ears about life,
Now, faith and hope coach my day,
Would I prefer still that wild animals and plants in the forest.

O cut that coat to my size for my materials had be wasted,
Would I blam the Tailor that tailored my life,
Would I blame that father's of mine who planted the cotton to germinate,
O I blame not that mother's of mine who accepted cotton seed to grow in her garden.

Should I manage that bogus cloth sewed for people's joy,
Should I wardrobe it longing for size,
O I will wear still that cloth of nature,
Re-sew my cloth, O the absolute Tailor of my being.


© Nwankwo Johnson C.