Omodele

It is cool, the morning fresh
with the smell of grass reaching me up high
on my balcony.
Flashes of sweet days gone
run back to me.
When I held you,
like you are my own, just my own
Your freshness is not absent
from this great feeling;
for your presence is more sublime,
buried somewhere deep
in my consciousness.
This refreshes my mangle thoughts,
thoughts of you being far.
I remember everything:
your smile, your fresh lips, your very image
They keep replaying.

This my state has been continual
And I've often denied this subliminal
feeling--
Denied it for my selfishness;
my own sense of security.
I cherish it still, alone.


Yet in my reflection,
when everything is lacerated
and laid bare like a desert,
the truth lams me.
I'm lost when the double must be quizzed
To say and end it,
or be silent and let the sufferance continue. . .