RAGGED

Rivers of imagination 

wading through each other,

washing off the shore. 

Torn fabrics 

on dried bones,

sturdy feet

upon sinking sand. 

Worn out emotions

over repulsive ideas.

How does a man 

feel between 

revolting dreams? 

give in,

or give up? 

Man make known dreams 

but dreams makes a man known. 

Now, the fossils of these dreams 

lies moribund, piercing the 

mind.

A thinking head needs

a full stomach too,

how can you lean on your own 

shoulders and cry,

when no shoulders are there to lift 

your afflictions?

With shackles of hopes bonding both limbs, 

holding them to the ground. 

And heaps of wishes 

burrowing grounds

to lay in dead dreams, 

with sacks of stones 

hung upon time.

(c) Asa Cl

(6-2023)🇳🇬®