Old Poems… Cupid’s Bow.


The instrument of love,
Unable to taste of its own sweet medicine, Alas, its soul mate and companion
destined away, A fleeting glimpse, touch briefest, Gone back to the quiver,
Rival enemies, yoyo scenario, Everlasting torment.


Aye, bow out of the curse,
Total annihilation of love.
No more of the tear drops,
Warmly lubricating our clime,
Arrow go, arrow come
Not an eagle’s love or none
Accident of love never grown.

C Abimbola Onaoluwa – 2012


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