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This Apple

I’ve got a shape that wiggles and waddles
Same oldies, same old, Mabel and Mable;
Hot and captivating in the bible of apples
Read meaningfully on a beautiful flat table.

I’ve got a shape that fetches the babbles
And tonnes of senseless tweets that twaddle
On lips connected by cables and gables
Longing to chew my delicate apples.

I’ve got the tip of the diddle, don’t gamble
With or without my hand in an open fiddle
For I know, that away you shall piddle
Soon after deflowering my fruitful apple.

I’ve got a shape of an apple gathering a huddle
But that doesn’t demean I should flirt and mingle
Neither does it define; I mustn’t be single in a jungle,
This apple is but an hourglass at my own middle.

Boys will always stare towards the saddle
I often tremble but hope they get the riddle,
That this apple is an hourglass at my middle
Not on theirs or theirs to manhandle.

Dear Scientist

Dear Scientist
You will be odd
Without his light..

Might makes right
Don’t against God
Pick up a fight,

He controls breath;
On his hand
Lies life and death.

Rivers of life

When sailing
In the rivers of life,

Expect it all
A wind for a sail

Smooth and rough
Comes a tide in life

Let no antics
Kill your plights

Know that, none can curse
The blessings by God

So seek and find
His mights and right

When sailing
In the rivers of life.

Grace on me

In a deep noiseless dark
I did hear all they spoke
Effortlessly, then I woke;
Floating on a gracious flake.

Garri and salt, I used to soak
Hopelessly, until the break..
Behold, grace on me took
Me, into the flames of smoke.

In the air, mighty walls I crack
Breaking into the tall blue sky;
Flying like birds without a brake,
Grace on me is real not fake.

Relentlessly, for my humble sake
Success sacks fell on my arm to take
In the turbulent dark dead lake,
Grace on me is an iceberg’s puke.

When it pours, I float to the dyke
Waterproof covered with so much like
Groceries of failure, I don’t cook or bake
Because in this race; grace got my back.

Why boast

This life is so frosty
Illusions make it hot,

Dry, wet, tough and dusty:
All in vanity, yet we boast

When God holds the oust
Of the seas and floating boats

With His upthrust graces,
Peddling and navigating us

Coast to coasts;
By His grace, yet

We take to pride that
We are meant to be the sailors

And pirates all by ourselves;
Forgetting that life is our host

And we are its guest; to dust
One day, we will be a ghost.

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