I hid my love in my blood


I hid my love in my blood

i hid my love in a stream
of satless blood.
there she goes
unseen in the clads of breath.
there she sit in the leaves
of million airs.
she is a file of darkness,
a page of shade
flamed in existential beauty.
the night birds are home now,
their songs undiluted
in nectar in dew of wet eyes.
day breaks and she sprouts
out of a butterfly’s heart.
midnight dies and she sweeps
her soul across the inocence
of the early sun.
i hid my love in my blood
not for the touch of the winds!
I hid my love in my blood
not for the steals of the subdued tongue!
but for her petal laughter
that should she die, she might be
resummoned once more
into her left scar in my flesh
with every drop of my blood.



~~My Today~~


~My Today~

Much have i seen and known
I am part of all that i have met
It being cold, it being warm
Little i see in nature that is mine
I have gained, I have lost
I gave my heart away
Sordid hours!
Yes!- the springtimes needed me
Wintertimes embraced me
My past, my last, is my today
Oft on my chesterfield i lie
In vacant or pensive
I wish to pen a missive
To all damsels i played number two with
‘ Penitent Penitent Penitent’
I thought of it as much happiness
But here is my today
I see no more the rainbow
I sit with my eyes dipped in my sorrow bowl
Big ups to all my pals working on the future
You will surely have more life with nature
Harsh realities fall before me
They keep coming in two’s and three’s
When am i getting a better day?
I have no job so no pay
If i cry out, who gets to hear me?
I resist no more to travel
I will drink
Drink the echoes of my past
And spend my last days in a beer garden
Where my thoughts and memories shall fall asleep
Once i keep drinking more

(C) V.Sefah Anokye



Your memories bring me to earth
Silent smiles of a rock
The mound you dug
Is now mute and unmoved

Calmly I have whistled my all
My saliva looks dry
The cry of the baby stains my soul
“You were beautiful”, thus said the spoon

Moments have died out
Your wings no longer look bright
I am short of breath
But who would feed my nostrils with oxygen
Now that you are gone?

The happy soul is now sad
The leaves no longer bow
The fallen age of time has become infertile
Please come back again
O’ half of my soul—

I know you are dead
I feel your whispers in the air
Your graveyard I lie
Looking to see your smoke to appear

Come back, come near
For your silence burdens my neck
And your streaking thoughts
Scares the real me—
Come, O’ soul of me

The Village Thinker © 2014




This evil, this paralyzing demon inside me, keeps a glance at my soul.
The torture of romances from her lips, sends a huge himalaya of shivers beneath my abdomen.
Why this thistle of thrilling pains with no gains of dead dreams? And nature an irony of beauty painted in solitudes of life’s muscles. 
Chastise me, cast me into the furnace of tears and deep sobriety of toast.


No timely interventions, the world of my own is a myth. And who is a saviour to cleanse my woes and purify my stains?
Having been shot with life’s dead bullets, the longing for inner peace with no place to fetch her soothing waters.
My mind remains in torrential torments— deep echoes of weeping within is all I have got to take solace from.


The sky patched with grey mirrors, darkness flexing her egoism beyond my strength; who will be there to comfort me?
This journey I am traveling looks subduing, a quake trembles forewarning from the abyss of death.
I am only midway, and my strength has lost it gem to this trade of transexual orgasm.
The Lord’s prayer and the psalmist letters are the waters I wish to drink, though my throat looks wet though I am so dry within.


Moments have scripted me to dying younger than I have anticipated, so is the gate of hell smelling with smiles of welcome.
My mathematics teacher prunes my ear with echoes of warning
“you have no bright future, only a swelling hopeless skin with no fluid.”
The classroom magicians have tried several magical works on my world; it still looks gloomy and unreadable.
Who art thou that sees beyond comprehension to wrestle me from this dilemma?


I am impotent, and the cry of my childlessness tickles through my spin.
The gravity of hopelessness is graver than the magnitude of my inner powers.
Poetry, being a poet and having lingered through its course of servitude has changed nothing.
The only miracle that keeps its rhythms of beats along these soft pinnacles of me is surely the salvation potion of suicide; there I have found glittering lights to comfort my soul till the iron gate of the heavens beams no more grace on my lifeless body in this dungeon.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Loyal Madness


my lord and lord of my bulges
I cut my knee cap for your saintism
armored with incessant taste
to unveil that peeling flesh
but do I need still need your permission?

To say, sleep and weep no more
is like adding a soberer’s blood to a weeper
nothing changes, except the anguished tears that never ceases…. 

They left me at the close end
sounds of treachery I keep playing
as my world fumes with my only understanding
but to the realms of reality
I am only a carnival’s concordant appease

Take me to hell
o’ sounds of ailments
take me to the abyss
o’ failing moment of my nomenclature
for the rise of this tide
merges me with the loyalty of roses

And yet all is madness
nothing beautiful, many ugly moments
yet only my obituary cameras
take my snapshots to the oceans of wails….

The Village Thinker © 2014

I died in–


I lie,
And my lips,
I would flake,
As I sink in tattered–

I bow,
Drying tears,
And the gods,
they say are not to blame?

———I died in———

Fifty million,
All shattered dreams,
Dreams of you,
Drained in–
You left not your,

I smell those shoes,
And all were in ghost.
Graveyard strokes in my heart,
As the moon died out,
I was dead like Eve,
Even before Adam
Could find out,
I was already dead–
In you!

The Village Thinker © 2014

The truth I never felt


Here he comes today too
in that linen soft robes
with his curls so blackened
and eyebrows thickened
like a lamb for a holy sacrifice.

he told me of a ‘man’
he claims has solutions to all these myriad
predicaments of humanity.

One thing sets him high
on the acme of admiration
that his black neatly book
he calls ‘Bible’
is the chiefly charm.

His unadulterated blend of words
from a truly wisdom filled heart
says more of his uniqueness
the flames of love in his eyes
has endeared me to his likeness.

A rumour last night told of him
he was not the man I thought he was
he laid in his blood pool in the room
with a written paper on his folded palms
it reads, “I have been suffering from cancer for twenty years”…

It was sad, very poignant scene
such a young admirable soul
with his missionary cloak still on
he hid behind this beam on his checks
to warm our minds of how great love is.

The Village Thinker © 2014

Autumn sandwiches


Autumn has,
finally sent away,
her flairs this way.

She said,
she knew not,
the rhetorics of seasons.

Time not ceasing,
as her windshields flew,
and all she did was,
“never ceasing to pray”.

Aquatic perfumes,
brightly coloured petals,
their brilliance,
so pure in rainbows.

Seasons sleekest nights,
as winter dazed on one side,
and spring waving on the other,
but all is—
autumn sandwiches of her charm.

The Village Thinker © 2014

So she died


I lighted a candle,
and it got burnt,
at the eve of dawn,
I read not liquid;
but blood of a human.

She was dead, dead,
and cliche was her dread,
I see the new candle dying,
younger beyond limitless,
I am dead!
and so is she! 

Licking my purple,
tears of a ghosting soul,
my life wanders away,
As the sways take them away;
beyond being seen by eyes,
am still dead!
and so is she!

The Village Thinker © 2014



The flashing beam of ghosts,
the diminishing pots of hollows,
I see death and fate crossing hands,
Time is flying,
And you are dwindling…..
I curse not the eve,
but I bless the eyes,
nothing will ever seem fresh,
As frequently as the clock ticks,
I see the moon blurring,
  . . . I am not fate,
Slime potions,
Swallowed by inks…..
I am,
Breathless and,
Stung by the bee….
Life is a real race,
      I want to raid,
         Raid unto race,
I wiggle to hell,
And you still, drilling yonder
Alignment of lures….
Lord save me low….
It deems me to dream,
      and feel the heals of fingers across me….
I am a hunter,
Caught in the dilemmas of loops….
I am…fainting below…

The Village Thinker © 2014