The Valentines Trilogy – 2

If I said love you like a cow’s first sight of hay The earth would stop and lillies wouldn’t sway If I said my love to you was like amaranth Gracing

The Valentines Trilogy – 1

I sincerely do not know what love is Maybe it is the morning sweet walk on the sandy beach Or the lonely evening stroll on the busy side of the

My ‘Love’

I still have photos of you Making merry my gallery With the memories now rising like chaff Blown by the wind so rough I still have memories of you Lingering

Not an Option

I fornicated With many that I couldn’t count I did drugs That weakened my body and clogged my mind On the streets I sang Of my greatness, my wealth and

My Pillar

I play with you Same way a child plays with its toys I fully enjoy the new experience Trying to understand the complexities And new ways to explore you Sadly,

Take Up My Case

I stand in the judgement of many Lawyers refuse my case as I have no penny Am accused of slander, theft, blasphemy and hate Despite me claiming to be a

Afraid of the Future

My future seems bright Because the Lord is my light My tomorrow seems fine As I am walking in line Closely following his footsteps Ordered by Him But am afraid

Where is Love?

Sometimes I feel unloved Maybe segregated from the world Or abolished from life’s stream When I see the streams of posts Captioned on friends’ social stream I ponder on how

Let Me Not Dethrone You

Lord, you promised my enemies That they will be my footstool You said you will go before me And make known to me the paths of life You said your

His Blood My Atonement

My steps are ordered And my trouble powdered My feet are on this rock The same that I mocked My eyes are gazed on this way The same he carried

You Will Not See The Kingdom

Are you gay? Do you perform sex before marriage? Well, are you a drunkard? Or have you conned someone? Wait, do you love gossip? That it has become part of

Let God Judge His People

‘Mary is a whore The so-called praise and worship leader Is morally depraved, filthy and full of murk. Yet she is at the altar every Sunday Crying to God and