Many Rare Devils
A poem
My emotions were set on the pinnacle of delight and I rode the invasion of shooting stars. I’ve never had a life so colourful with a golden, lustrous shine and I excelled beyond potential because angelic majesties were pleased with smiles.
The currents of joy swept me like a meandering river so I rocked and swerved at every turn and the dazzling lights of magnificence orbited around my frame making me glow with the excellence of pure, undoubted brilliance.
Many days came as loyal attendants and the indulgence of my appetite was seen to grub. Satisfaction went off-limits and nothing was found to constrain my fervent lusts for earth’s unlimited luxuries.
I rode the magnificent arc of the rainbow to and fro and opened my soul to the ecstasies of space. Surely, I apprehended the bliss on cloud nine and immersed myself in the untainted element of poignant, rhapsodic thrills.
My feet walked where splendour is gold and I kissed the novelty of the morning. The longings of my soul were tucked out of contentment and many paradisal excitements welcomed me with grand, audacious proclamations.
But the storms of existence are an insidious evil with wrath that can’t be challenged. The tempests of disaster banded together as a coalition to utterly destroy me and to vent the ill fury of mad, vicious dragons.
I’m assaulted at every turn and presented with a rich diversity of varied afflictions. Now my nights are pleasured to deprive me of sleep and the mornings roll my ankles so I stumble to the delight of a laughing, jocular circus.
This back knows the cruelty of bitter, unrelenting flagellations and the sturdy demons of hell are pleased to sweat while they whip. I watch as the joy of my days dissipates like wisps of smoke — wearing the identity of fleeting, ephemeral moments.
I’m tackled to fall face-down and mourn from many characteristic adversities, so much the presentation of evil is ever-changing with a special, uncommon trauma for a new, woeful event.
I bury my face in my palms when I cry on numberless occasions and I wear the apparel of grief as an object the world has failed crassly. The sequence of my moments is a sore stigma so I’m the symbol of abhorrence mugged by many rare devils.
© Valentine Nnebe 2024
All Rights Reserved
