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The eye of March 1585 I am forever lost to this feral emotion that is consuming me…. It was said that on the day of her birth, the last words her mam whispered after she beheld her daughter’s beautiful round eyes and full red hair were “my poor, sweet Maroon”. That name forever stuck in
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Thou lord, my shepherd hath forsaketh me; I am overcome with want….. The cruel and harrowing storm raged in all its raw and salvage splendor while the world around it dwindled to rubble and waste. It gloriously rampaged all in its path as though it were on a search and purge mission. It moaned hoarsely,
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It is believed that there is no greater evil than the feeling of sheer hatred for another man. It’s also believed that hatred is misplaced admiration, hence almost harmless. Whichever one chooses to accept or embrace is based on one’s perception and experiences in life. Back when I proclaimed myself an atheist and openly rejected
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Patience which is said to be a virtue, was one I didn’t have in plentiful as I sat at the corner clipping my dirty finger nails. The reason for my impatience was the slow approach the second occupant of the room employed as he nervously went about the final phase of our unsavory business.
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It was almost dawn and sadly, the searing weather didn’t look like it was going to cool off. But what saddened my heart more was that the rising of the sun which signified the coming of a new day held no promise of hope or salvation me. Fatima who barely had an hour worth of
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The menacing figure calmly sat on the precipice of the Bolivian cliff brandishing a fauchard in both hands as it watched me with apprehension. It was dark but I could see from this great distance that its dark cloak fluttered eerily with the wind and a tingle of excitement crept up my spine. Always from
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Papa no longer plays with me like he used to because he has been sick since we traveled back from Benin. Worse, I am only allowed to see him once in the morning and then at night and it hurt my little heart so much. Isi the hateful new house girl from the village was
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His eyes shone like the stars on the African night skies as the inferno which had been burning with so much intensity receded to a trickle. So dangerously close to the fire he had stood weeping as traces of his past and present burned into oblivion. Now all that was left which bore evidence to
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Heed this cry for no matter how hard we try, our lands are still dry Our eyes are teary, our sights are blurry, our hearts are heavy and our bellies are filled with rye Yet we try to keep the funeral pyre burning for those we have lost and now lie therein We keep the
My Dark School Of Thoughts 