Mercy Idowu

a small token of kindness (22nd March 2022) 
          
          the tears of the pianos,  graves of sunken breaths; courageous sins, museums of agonies. hymns of homes, suffocated lungs; limited heartbeats, life of a quarter. coffee crowds, memory ghosts; mad touches and fragmented routes. veins avoided, night inspirations; apathetic ambiguities, rainbow tinges. 
          
          lonely embraces, curtained eyes; a void of white and a concealment of dewy pride. today deaths and tomorrow births; pigeon wings and the delight of darkened blood. stained apologies, glass sermons; reincarnated knees, candle shelves. shells of fantasy, pigmented treasures; halls of power, wolf of lust. 
          
          blue and flowers, emerald and topaz; grass of laughter, velvet hold. ink of spine, ocean depths; numbing praises, sugar- like rust. a shard of grief, a war of sickness; a woman of one, a woman of million. a broken petal of grace, a shade of march; a human beneath it, a prisoner on its soil. 
          
          mint foam, sweetened moonshine; honey blades, dark grains. foxes of faith, wings like knives; a mirror that looks, a mirror of judgments. year of beds, unmade sheets and blankets; biscuit crumbs; lungs left in black pockets. a suspended leaf and a heart of migration- where has it been held? it has merely been left to the vultures. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (18th March 2022) 
          
          a rose from thorn-like death, a stone of heart and a comb of hell, a marker of prejudice, a hall of fright, 
          destiny clad in archer's arrow, a moment of pride, kith and kin, lies, lotuses and legacies, foreign homes and ginger tragedies. 
          
          fragile skins and paper cuts, laws martyred, twilight sun; clinking pedants, olive guilts; dusty hands and blackberry fingertips. autumn of march, buried hopes; leaves lost to skin, a ground of boiling blood. pear yearnings, spring of fall; cavalier sun and half moon echoes. 
          
          marionberry garnet and ruby hearts; fire-like worship, drowning soils. mulberry blood, violent rugs; gardens of night, orchids of flesh. congested wounds, salted shores; lakes of tourmaline, valleys of balsam. bread and sanctuaries abandoned,  cinnamon paper and ochre canvases. 
          
          deer-like details, fogged empathy; rosary of the waves, prayers of the cliff of throat. bruised knuckles, clay air; riverbed séances, grief burns. crescent universe, a child's veil; rosy vessel, magnolia dirt. whether soaked in water or blood, a heart behind the ribs is still a prisoner in a prison. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (13th February 2022) 
          
          burning soulmates, strained hopes; braided yearnings, captive dreams. passion- borne blood, water an invisible vesper; moon a poet's literature, soil a paper of hunger. a predator, a musketeer, a thunder; a matchstick, a street of bougainvilleas, half a nail lost, flesh to rust. 
          
          worn arms, ragged pleasures; clean madness, innocent errors. veins of solitude, beats of courage; a farewell to religious laps, to a moon with brave life. mistakes and spaces in ribs, hearts choking in sin; rhetoric trees and murdered portraits in lights of the quiet. 
          
          ashes of nursery amethysts, stories worth centuries within; glass of a new born fist, hope dangling over a pit of abyss. authentic prison, protection from  touches; suspended lungs, pessimism a curse blind. foetal hearts and shrunken graves, suffering mirrors and homely miscarriages. 
          
          evolution of art, sugar theft; white oleander tickles and bleeding disguises of virtues. a city of ciphers,  mountains of parables; consumed violins, bruises of metal and blood. to the eyes find that nothing old or worn, and for the hearts that see no flaws and prickles, there is no death. like the moon and the sun that have not aged; human hearts as these reside as the 'oud of time. 
          
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (08h February 2022) 
          
          vanilla tides, porcelain skies; insurgence of the ganges and anatomies birthed in the womb. lavender pulses, foxgloves of disappointments; afternoon intoxications and stings of moon's salted craters. covenant slippers of sweat, storms of acidic sin; limbs of serenity, heart a serpent's spine. 
          
          wandering knees, furnace meadows; prairie blades, malbec- blurred palms. atlases of ribs, the eyes a stoic bleeding blues; firmament of human organs, the universe a galaxy with it. violent emotions, frigid compromises; people water, their bones abandoned orphans. 
          
          kolkwitzia like the thames, fossils of fame; life a cloak of melancholy, unlike death, of invisibility. today a parlour with letters wordless and addresses of silhouettes blind. nascent blooms and dainty gravel; how much of the truth kills one each day, how often does one lie to not develop resentment to himself? 
          
          febrile offsprings, universe a glory of margaret ache; home a graveyard, ages and agers buried. an emblem of bones, a cremated constellation; mind instructed under a veil, sky a chest of God. sun and the moon, a mind of two names; sisyphean creations, limited incantations. why is the sky allowed two wings, why must a human heart be caged with none? 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (25th November 2021) 
          
          fangs of fortitude unmask themselves from the rays of the sun and buckle in tenderly to a musty memoir. maternity remains, in most of its stages, within the sky's blends; like soft lather from a coffee's gaze. what is meant to be forgotten sticks around in the climate of the mind, as though music from piano's striking stars. 
          
          watch and catch, hold and explore, what the jewels of the night sing as a prose; as a reminder of its stretched solitude, from one bit of its existence to the rest; marks of slippery injury and sweat upon its body. much it begs for, dark after dark, in trillium twilights, in coffee-lit sunsets, in flickering frostbites and mourning mangroves. 
          
          in the obliterated shores of the abandoned seas, of the golden sand marked with diabolical tongues of caramels, there are present gleams of faded beginnings and unstrained marks of life's plannings. unbearably beautiful it is; they hold onto the fury of the waves and wishes the sea goodbye. 
          
          things that can lure the air into desolation, by their side and beside their gaping heart, are those black with loneliness. cradle the pink veins of the foetus with the thick knot of the placenta around it; a momentary connection between life and its second form. it is alone there, the new heart, in its own pool of sorrows. 
          
          every so often, it is apparent and seen, the mind making connections with several violins; and the foetus an instrument rare to hold. many a beats a heart uses, but none can it find close enough to even see. prettiness is a state of solitude; like a cloud of beauty but nothing to rely upon. and the stars that hang all night without a bed to toss upon. 
          
          mind is easy to befriend, like a balm of butter. it is the heart that is blackened with solitude, a universe mistaken as an enemy's ground. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (24th November 2021) 
          
          the veteran sun holds close the magenta rage; traces of maternal spine and a shadow of the constricted girl in a woman gulped by slaughterers. raspy words and kites of innocence, demanding notes and pastel shaded envelopes; a finger slashed with extravagant remorse. the morning king wraps a shawl around the human's mind, in a fire, wherein it burns to history and earth. 
          
          upon maturation, the queen of a every knight, flickers its snowflakes over the velvet-like pride of forests and flowers, lovers and lies. many then are torn down to serenity, their skulls exposed to burning tears; the moon an acidic hue. soft parlors of stars etched upon lips of beautiful fury; muddled reflections of an anxious devil and a heart wet with faith's dewiness. 
          
          hands and fingers stuck in cold windows, in the society's concept of a prejudiced prison; wrung by the stomach and hung by the heart, flung into the air like a sea's wild swan. mouths of rain and hearts of manners, time of today and aches of tomorrow; whirled between eternity and death of every second. 
          
          realisation has dissolved into thin earth, minds now poisoned by the devil's apple. run and run while glued to the present, die and die succumbing to the gone nights in the future. vessel of brass brimming with age, bodies and souls molested by suppressed veins. 
          
          we run; we run fast with names, we run as if to catch death, as if to slaughter the days. we run as though to hold the passed breaths, the warm liquid of yesterday in our palms bare and the beats of journeys scratched into nails. we run as the sun does behind the moon,  but never once sit back against the trees of time and watch home unfold with our blood of present smiles. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (21st November 2021) 
          
          the light of November's sun is that of a sinful sunset, with pine needled preaches and nocturnal nostalgic nostal. death is a conduit of life, the sun a kiss of eternal life. where it thrives, where the storm blooms with bones, where the flowers cherish the obsidian raging with blue; the sky a constellation of ivory palms and forged children. 
          
          the steam of the moon's mind is but a gentle ray, its wounded woman a warrior of porcelain blood. what it protects, what is gives, and how much tumult we return. the power of a thousand springs against a winter fueled by graceful wildfire. 
          
          oceans and glasses under the gaze of crystal, the walk of a bangled dandelion along the whispering waves, words of worship, a call of submission to the floating nerves. barefooted youth, a place of massacred mind and hopeless happiness. the seas understand, they have found your shadows and have preserved them in flights of beads. 
          
          whether day or night, the sky shines with pride. like a little water and a bit of salt make up an ocean,  war and a bandage make up a human. light is light, whether pink or purple. each has a station in the universe, a homely hug, and every one has a place destined together, with unity, like a rainbow. 
           #adropofhumanity 

a small token of kindness (7th November 2021) 
          
          the scalpel defines the wounds of the dense sun, the world but a vanilla skin of the organ; of chrysalis stitches and butterscotch flecks. much of it blends into the greedy seas, into the wilting petunias of the shallow springs and the words of prey that are consumed by the foam of the lunatic cosmos. 
          
          the collisions are where the alike attract and the opposite succumb to a ground of smoldering verses; a casket of collected limbs. vast parts of its anthem are consumed by the purple of the living  wounds; a clean glow contaminated with the wailing dawn. 
          
          marks are left around, smells are planted like the crabapples that grow with desperate blackbirds, hungry are proposed with the helpful pledges of sorrow and the dances of the mothers are engulfed in a crown of their martyred uteruses. 
          
          what one knows is but a thing of newness; a fresh torch of obstinate piety and poetry breaths through flowers of chestnut. sourness of the fingerprinted  letters carry a hundred and twenty furies, each one a call, a summoning to your ten different beings. 
          
          without an understanding, what is love and admiration but a fool's plate of food? any life without a name is a treasure lost to the sea, like the pearl that remains canvassed between origami ornaments. 
          
          what is cherished, is discovered; stared at and longed for. the fumes, the inks, the curtains of disguises, the patterns, the scars and the rib veiled hearts are traced, with fingertips of delicate onyxes. 
          
          the sun and the moon are but the creatures of clay; unknown and unalive. however with identity, they are companions of the confederate roses; of bleeding hands and blackberry silences. 
           #adropofhumanity 

Hi!
          This is an appreciation post! ❤️
          I'd really love to thank you for being such a wonderful readers of my work. Thank you for your votes and generous comments. 
          I don't think I can put into words how much all this means to you.
          
          Thank you! ❤️
          Wendy loves you, deeply.

a small token of kindness (23rd October 2021) 
          
          on the sun, there are dry scratches of the metaphoric fence, the blindfolded eyes that were forced to negotiated with darkness and the marks of hearts that could not sew themselves back to wholes. in the silent sky, there are strips of forbidden letters that dance to kill which appear as falling stars to the naked beings. 
          
          rain embodies itself with the earth, the tragedy of the brown melting into a caramel spring. the sky expands its chest to water tears for the fact that it never has witnessed a sunset; the sin of hardly being able to caress its own cheek, its own features, heavier than regrets. 
          
          to a soul, how much does the window of life sting? to a body of smoke, blood and tears are natural and sunlight an iron cage, in fine leaves and cartilages; a fine November with its enemies. what is blood, but a mixture of fury and future; soaked in harm, made up of pretentious glory.
          
          to live, one must breathe in some place else. in accordance with the sun that escapes from the universe to live on Earth. there is blanket covered hope that has died in dirt, in rocks painted with east coast. the more stars we let go, the more we find. the more wars we survive, the more we unsee the horrors in ourselves. 
          
          the constellations of violets and the collected earth of the stars all synchronise with one another; the bruises like jewels that decorate the knuckles. 
          
          let yourself be consumed by another dynasty, carved into a delicate alabaster of history, like the bones that are formed into galaxies of the soil away from a body of clay and the sun that spills itself into the jugular vein, aside from the horizon's gaze. 
           #adropofhumanity