The desire to sire.
Hanging on the wire.
The fire so dire.
Yet the gesture,
Seems so far fetched.
Knees bruised.
Faith nurtured...
The bond a stronghold.
All nooks lurked.
Even more to behold…
Half a half a fortnight…
The tummy sore…
Unfruitful all thoughts.
Worries and unknown expectations…
A seed a seed…
Could it be?
Any ideas naught…
Knowledge or belief which yields?
A sown seed it is …
Germinating developing a leaf upsetting the minute elf.
To puff and huff.
A litmus test enough?
It is…
Yet…a volcano brews…
To dissolve the royal blood.
Its potent…
And runs down the slope…
With the chosen blood.
What’s to come…
The mind is futile…
Yet belief holds on the LORD.
It holds strong…
To the deep truths foretold told in the days of old,
Anew with each Gong,
An ancient song constantly sang.

Done By….

ENGLEBERT CHIKODZA







© ENGLEBERT BRUCE