The Message

The Message

The urge is so strong.
Getting hotter,as it ascends an even higher thought rung.
White hot message,when delivered,to grasp requires fire-tong’
It has lain so long unspoken in my lung.
And became immune from wrong.
A tacit and succinct comparism,i so much long.
Aha! like on the head of the disciple-a fire-tongue.
Detonating the tongue to speak along
A path a very few throng.
For absence of the recidivist pleasure of the thong.
An expression that need not be wrung.
Rather,itching to be flung
As black on white paper,to be read and possibly sung.
Contrariwise qualifies any bard for the morgue.

It will destroy you if you’re with it selfish.
Deliver it,with a feeling sombre disguised feverish.
Debit it from an infinity of thoughts for others to relish.

My leisure their pleasure.
Their censure my treasure.
My message perfected by their censure.
Prodding and plodding me on,on a volcanic outburst without censure.

Delay earns me inspirational cemetery.
Exhumed,when i discover the mystery
That lies between protean future and static history.
NOW! the unappreciated umpire of an indifferent symmetry.

NOW! is all ‘have got
To deliver this message so hot.

2 thoughts on “The Message” by Whyte Datonye (@whyte)

  1. @whyte, okay! You got me on that one. But, okay! Nice!

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