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He had a harum-scarum youth

His life an apotheosis of a moral-less soul

He thought all advisers nudniks

Who could blame him when his blood sat in a heating pan


He had no life mirror

In his living workable paradise

So wore the stains of faults like happy robes

Until the legs of his skin fell in the hands to pulling time


Who can fetch the years gone bad

And fix the body its rot has eaten?

His mind regrets its sorry journey

Which knew no bliss of correction

But who will remedy? Discern directions from this, ye boiling blood

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) October 19, 2016

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

5 thoughts on “FOR BOILING BLOOD

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