I am white black hue,
an anthem of a tune from the unknown—
Whispers of the silent mid-day waters—
serval interlocked spears of whyism.
Two blue moons of a ripping tale!
fury in a diluted tortoise blood—
And where is your sweat that I may breach?
and the beads of your conscience that I may intersect?
Riddles all over my lips;
as my tongue boils in billion saliva—
Look me as a flood with dose of fragments!
But let not teases be a temple wag.
Like the seed of wawa—
am a doyen hardiest hosted tale,
Baked from an oven of the palace…
I am you— me I— a village tale under wet old tongue.
The Village Thinker © 2014