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Every strong heart was once cuddled by
drops of clear, salty liquid
called tears.
Lingering, then linking to
every hern of the face,
like the flow of River Niger and Benue.
A feeling of compassion
caused by the misfortune of others
rips us off our innocence
like a reality-filtered delusion
under a false impression.
Written upon my bloody heart
is a kingdom come, where I walk with a freight
that's beyond my light.
I ascend into the ether
of the netherworld, come what may.
— Olaitan Humble
