Thunder stormed; lightning stroked,
The sky weep for a while.
In the frustrated month—August,
An ere wet Saturday it was.
Scrolling through the social media,
My electronic bride pronounced your lost.
Stupefy, in mid August;
An April fool's day I think it was.
A righteous source it came from—BBC;
Forced thru the cracked walls, I had to believe.
By your lost I saw a mountain uprooted;
I saw creatures beneath the deepest ocean—swallowed sugary tears.
By your departure—doves and pigeons coo;
Over the outskirts of Africa, darkness overshadowed.
As the green forest echo your departure,
Bewail its descendants grew.
As the wind scream loudly its threnody,
Far beneath the horn of your home—Nightingales sang unsung elegies.
In search of a better world for us dark descendants;
I believe you left for a tour—like Mandela and others.
In a world of our own—we'll be call light and not dark.
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I'm an emerging poet, who writes base on the ills of the society.