A bloody strand of hair sits on her head
Like the twinge of a tale.
Many roads stretch their planes
Into distances in her mind
begging to be travelled.
A forgone apology seeps out of
her eyes as tears
And a dirge pours out of the precipice
that rules the night.
She kisses me goodnight and the
world’s drugs expires at gunpoint.
The world lies still in a theatre
and no surgeon is in sight.
© Echezonachukwu
Nduka 2015
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