Poem

Zenabel

Flung against the spine of a cactus,
Pages of their lives,
Thorn apart, shredded.
But they are good men.
On the throne of hay,
Zenabel,
Daughter of Herodias, sits
Smeared with a smile.
Charming fools into believing her motherliness.
Her flipping tongue,
Holds canisters of venom,
Stinging honourable men with cloaks of humiliation.
Tears beseech
The throne of their maker,
Crying for justice.
A sword sculpted from a mountain,
Is coming your way
To halt your imperial flight
Over a valley of vampires.
They will spin you alive
In a sudden nightfall.
Your kingdom will flee before your eyes.
Your cherished lovers will scoff
At your nudity
And pelt you with stones.
But a window cries out:
Turn a leaf,
Change your ways,
Maybe,
Maybe,
Thy grisly sins
Will be washed clean
By the Good Lord.
And a few good men will live in peace,
Their souls renewed. (Featured image by @me_wela, Farabale Africa.)

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Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, Newspackng.
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