Cure.

pain is the after thought
your love was the disease
my heart was the log
that your chainsaw of lies fell.
My tears were the heavenly drops
from which your garden of deception fed
my hands were the plough
that built ridges and beds
yours were in my pocket
like locust over harvest.
I am the mace in the hands of a warrior
your the clang that delivered my soul
yet as if were from an enemy
delivers a fatal blow,
my deliverer, my only foe.
This chronic pain eating deep into flesh and bone
not in any right my eternal desire
but since i tasted your evil elixir
impossible it became
to withdraw from this unwholesome lure
but poetry, poetry is cure.

Fimisola-Samuel