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9

9 is like something uncompleted, but with a tinge of very special. 
If God multiplied Himself, there would be 9 of Him. 
It could have taken 9 wise men to avoid Herod's whim 
And those 3 little pigs if nine were quite the team.

9 is like something still being perfected, but already very Godlike
Like the 9 lives of a cat, which signifies eternity 
Or my will for the whole nine yards with you with me
Or me on cloud nine at your breath forming "sweety"

9 melts the soul, mends the heart, and lifts the mind to new
Planes like you, always dressed to the nines,
Or me caught for nine years like wheel and spline
In the magic of your curves, thoughts and mind. 

My golden adorned finger still sings the joys of December, 
And memories flutter around my mind like butterflies amber
Probing the nectar from a pollen filled field, smiling as they taste
The joys of being you, and near you. 13 years seems like the haste
Of a boy to the Christmas tree, but it's not toy-time yet, 
It's just a celebration of you and me, when hearts met
Lips formed forever, and hands sealed like cymbals
And the Seraphins played along as 9 years are just a symbol
To hold firm the objective in a beautiful God-wrought gimbal. 

(c) nyonglema

 

Categories
sadness

Watering cans #cameroon #bir #kamikaze

It’s a big question in my mind how much liquid earth can take? 
Like if I were to empty litres upon the barren ground of caked
Desert, when does it overflow to stop my ambition of a lake? 

Lakes are fun to be on: the waterjet splashes speed soaring, 
The arms windmill to move you splashing, speeding, boring
Through the water, laughing, while fishes stare at nothing

Nothing is what the media said was poured on the ground 
But I saw the litres ambition to be more than gunpowder sound, 
And watering cans spilled their contents on watering can mounds

And in the mound  it’s about 5 litres a-piece, slowly ebbing gross.
Blood has a thing for making my stomach curl, and loss
Has a thing for making my eyes unfurl. Both are plain gross. 

Gross lies in the media proliferating gross lies to the public, 
While watering cans….Did I just call humans farming objects? 
Like we’re growing food for some starving child in our republic? 

My republic? No a human with holes watering the ground won’t 
Grow any food. Won’t heal any wounds. Won’t go out hunt, 
Or caress a little kid’s cheek. But guns, guns, they’re totally blunt, 

About causing blunt trauma to a nation seeking growth overall. 
You can’t silence these cats once you set the nips on your garden wall
And they hang around, they multiply and make humans lamentation walls. 

The wall of ego brings watering cans. The porous soil is tired. 
Is the ambition to make a lake? Is the ambition for war to retire? 
We’ll maybe never know, and till then deserts, blood, heaps, fire.

(c) nyonglema