Rhythms of Sorrow At Moonlight

Sunday evening was okay
For a light romance,
But Radeke chose to kill joy
In the lips of the great Ayantunde

He forsook the pleasant rhythm
Of his fathers to basking in the
Queer rhythm of distaste.

Moonlight tales had long died.
Love at moonlight play
Is now sour.
Sour than the undone milk
From the succulent breast of a teenager.

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