PoetrySad Poems

Wasted Prime

Beat the talking drum,
let it cry for the wasted waist.
The dirge shall echo over the horizon
—for the fall of an Amazon.

Arike is no longer pampered,
her pitcher is no longer balanced.
The streaks of tears stretch longer,
on her face.
Her slim waist got broken,
along with her heart.

She refused the warnings of Mama
and choose Alani.
Waist always wiggling gently
in the mild breeze of an African dusk,
she was untainted by the mundane dust.
Arike was perfect.
Until she fell for an “abusive but loving husband”.

Sound the drum,
Let the dirge echo into the night.
Tonight, we mourn the death of a fairy.
We mourn a broken waist and a wasted heart.

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