Give

After midnight,
around 1 o’clock,
I’ll call you,
I hope then, you’ll give me like always, your love,
However you may feel,
take my call,
choose the green press
No matter what
please…

After morning,
Perhaps around 1’oclock,
I’ll wake up to woes of my folly,
Of calling you under the influence,
I’ll regret my ways,
And perhaps decide then to let you part,
I don’t know.
But I ask,
When I call
Listen to me, to my afflictions,
Give me whatever remains of your love for me,
Give me…
Coz lately I need you.

Inspired by Ed Sheraan's ''Give me Love''.

The prodigal man,

Like an educated fool,

I had become proud

of riches serving my greed.

In my vanity,

I had disowned my people

and gave myself to an ever discontent world

of hypocrites and unbecoming saints

And though in the privacy of my thoughts,

I had acknowledged my previous life,

it had seemed to me

the feigned shame was much better to parade.

and so I would,

each time to a newer audience of friends, tell

of how I had grown into this man,

without the help of my village people.

I had relished in the folly of hypocrites,

who indeed had loved me with strict criterion,

scraping off what they could from the surface,

and leaving me when it had all withered,

Indifferent of an inner void they were emptying.

Shall I return home,

And eat of my shame no more.

Shall I return home and tell my people,

I had left to pursue so much more

And found absolutely nothing.

Clearly…

I want to see you

As a child,

life had seemed a mellow glide

of infinite giggles and a nicer forever,

Oh what joy we had soaked,

When a darling favour

Had made certain we enjoy

 The glow of a nonchalant sun.

Looking back

It seems the years had progressed

into a harsher seriousness,

Calling out of a girl: a woman,

One who would carry her own agony

of deciding the latitude of her sins.

Two decades later,

It seems she is naïve

Of whom the mirror is reflecting,

Her sorry eye, gazing back

at the mirrored unfamiliarity

Here’s her story:

Hello Yah.

Hello Yah.

Hello Yah.

Are you there?

Or am I simply crying out to a vague nothing,

One from which atheists feed their faith.

Am I all alone, progressing into an abyss

of faith and actual naught?

And yet I dwell,

Believing evermore in the halo,

Sensing strongly, something of its substance.

Whoever you are, I feel you.

Whoever you are, you immaculate spirit,

Of unimaginable splendour and unfailing love.

You know I am yours,

without divide and despite it,

Tattooed on the palm of your hand,

Your essence and mine,

ever mindful of one another.

Tell me to hope,

Tell me to dream,

Tell me to be,

And mostly tell me who you are.

I want to see you.

Amen.