poetry -crude as life-

Poetry breathed life
Into him,
rescued him
from an early
death sentence.
He had lost hope in life,
till that day
he scribbled
down a rhyme,
line after line
he wrote,
He composed
a story, a confession,
scented with flowery words,
stroked with imagery
and beautiful stanzas.
It was poetry
and he had written
his first poem.

He wrote out love,
the desire and passion
to stroke pen with paper,
thoughts with canvas,
He wrote out of the
love for the art,
Composing soothing
rhymes for the heart.
He forgot about his past,
his failures and regrets,
painful memories
were washed away
by enchanting words,
the like which gods
spared a moment
to read and re-hearse.

Years have passed by
and the love of the art
has been replaced by greed
for the big bucks,
he writes for fame,
to fill his pockets with cash.
He writes for the ladies,
to entice them with
his skills; poetry is but
now his aphrodisiac.
He has forgotten why he writes,
lost his way
and it’s barely night.
Poetry was an art,
now he writes out of the hurt,
for beer, money and skirts.

Poetry his once saviour
has turned to be his
coffin, grave and tombstone.
™©Mwangi Njoroge.