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HOPE
Hope!
The healing balm of the soul,
Of the unhappy and the weak.
Walking cladless, clueless of its targets
Targets unaware of the light at the far end
Of the dark, suffocating tunnel
Hope!
The ripe uneatable meal
Served and eaten at the Fabian hour
Shouting audibly low, flying on its clipped wings
Legs high, head hurt, dashing at its own limit
Only to meet its believers
Hope!
A good breakfast
A delicate, delicious lunch
But a bad supper
Tasted before its arrival
Eaten raw and hot when all seems lost.
® Abubakar Ibrahim Olokuta
{Avant garde}
© Nostradamus Two
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