Your pneuma was called by a whistle of darkness,
A day a black goat was slaughtered
Concurred upon by elders and ancestors
That that sunday shall be of your last,
Your belief conflicting with customs and rituals
An adventure that left memories digging,
Digging my intellect a place of belonging
Unearthing the late possible your image
In faith that heavens might imprison us
Whereas it's the absolute uncertainty,
Countless times I've seen you since left
Beyond the bridges of hope far from Canaan
Caged by regressions a new residence,
Your funeral failed a pastor your heavens
He then closed on church doors,
After realising the false gospel he preached
Yet your identity is still lost
In blood rivers rumbling by your child's veins
Flowing none waters even a tear to the ocean,
I beg long your prayers a little faith
Consecrated of my last hope
In my being an angel.



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