Refugee Poem by Agboyi Felix

Refugee

Rating: 4.5


Setting out,
A lane I've never throd nor partook.
A mat in my armpit,
An arm carried brass.
Not a complementary cloth
To make me somehow whole,
Except my pothole sandals
That makes me a sillohoute of the desert.
New roads transfixed without grasses,
I thred without a print but mist and murks.
Even if with fear, I must.
That old abode has been torn apart with books and sciences.
May be the arts.
Drunk but of no wine; sipped by
the passionless journey of unfriendly friends.
My pulse beating on the wasteland
turned from scattered unknown survivors is dismal.
Though I have no past now,
'cause its been washed away,
I find a cause to love my old branch.
But ahead is to move on,
And with a sigh, I ask; why this trigger
by my human masquerades, who
for one's endless pride for rank
ends not only I, but other multitudes as strokes of a brush at this wrong angle?

Sunday, April 27, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: Sad
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success