I can tear at the sound of a Cello, Viola and Harmonica.
Instruments with she names.
But my pride just lets the angel in and out my dreams go.
And my ego hardens the tear wells.
Just to have silent applauses of how real men don't cry.
I can move with Angelic movements as if in heaven's ballroom.
Just to let the slow tune sink into my deepest ends.
But I can't take it when her sweet voice denys my absent charm.
And all I do is stare at her and think of the sacrifices I have made for her.
Forgetting she too has been my ark in times of flood.
I can be still with my arms folded.
Feeling this wrecked body has a sense of a temple.
Where I can burn incense to the lord of love.
But I burn inside when she insults my little efforts of affection.
Yet her fragrance fills the air, perfume that's meant to appease me.
I the little lord of love refuses to accept the offer.
©ed-rukungu
E