Epistle of a Sinner

Napped in mother’s shrine,
shielded from dust,
unleashed from the twine,
to the fangs of the gusts

Three decades ago he cried his first,
tears dwarfed by psalms of felicity ,
his life as a lamb, Wordworth’s thirst
then with wolves, wore the rags of senility.

Now entrapped in the jungle’s web,
in a book lies a litany of debaucheries,
his statures continue to ebb,
his epistle of sins full of auguries.


15/09/2021
© Tatah Allen Laika