In The Darkling

Dark cloud, tick, tick of a moon,

comes thick-witted, on a broad day noon, soon, are the pitter-pattering legs up and down, roving in a surge in the night shadows,

dark cloud, tick, tick of a noon

with gnarled hands of a gun

is out to prey,

where only the homeless breeds.

On their faces a deceased yawn

for a breath

and here I am, standing in death’s abode in the darkling with only a breath of no life .

                                                          ~Emmanuel Joseph

                                                                Freetown, Sierra Leone