Another day pulls down its curtains
Sending ghosts of nature
To shepherd in flocks of day
Into terrains public and private
As a private candidate
Eyes see the bed which cries out for you
The bed which complains
Of the wasted space many are dying for
The bed whose eyes have lost
Visions of two becoming one
The bed whose veins are clogged by jerkless dancing
And warns of a strike
If its master’s hug fails to turn up
In its bosom
The fingers which play the guitar of beads
The fingers which weave hair into a mess
The fingers which hugg to hold
To wake heat from damning cold
The fingers which fit perfectly in hemmed stitches
In consumatory-coitus sports
Where all are winners in wins
And losers in loss
Where is the twin bed of this complainant located?
The curvy mouth which like a board
Displays a smile
The mouth which plays the hushes and moans
The mouth which is toffee unmelting
Colour in divinity
With couches of life in harmless bites
The mouth which travel to caves exploring
Some complaints hide in secret
For your ears only
So a pause on the toss
What doeth thou now?
Where doth thy thoughts roam now?
Are we on this nostalgic page?
Could we, some codes, like electric currents transmit?
Are we lost in hunting for pastures?
Funny how the talking heels
Of time hold clappers
To magnify its sounds in seconds
Until the hands of daylight hide the curtains of dark
I write my right off
Closing these ears to the noisy silence
Of this rebellious bed
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) October 12, 2016