The Heavens are Jealous
This a story poem that depicts grief and loss.
On a balcony stood a young beautiful pale looking woman
Who had her head bent down
Radiating from her is a thick air of sorrow
She let out a painful wail that penetrates the heart and left a furrow
Sobs, indistinct murmurs and incoherent sounds are all to be heard
Her shoulders shake in rhythm to her constant nose sniffing
Abet resulting from her long term weeping
Her face turned white and paper-colored
At the corner of her eyes rolled down a bead of tear
Devoid of nobility is her messy and disheveled hair
Her look the previous day and presently in comparison,
She looked to be years older
With the vicissitude of life hanging on her bent shoulders
She raised her head as her teary eyes gazed into the horizon
The morning Sun crawled out with its first ray of light
Spilling all over the balcony
The early morning sunlight
Targeted her lonesome figure cunningly
Through her blurry vision
She could see the mocking smile on the face of the Sun
Flickers of light outlining a face appeared in her vision
Smiling face seems to have appeared beside the Sun
It’s his face
Her Husband
Proclaimed God’s favored son
The proud son of heaven
Whose radiant appearance was said to outshine the Sun
Beads after beads of tears came rolling down
As she watched the flickering lights struggling to keep up
The sun poured out more light struggling to keep up
The Sun poured out more light as it overwhelmed the light beams
The struggling light became dull and dim
She gave a loud howl of agony
Her legs moved wobbly as if they were made by Jelly
She dropped to the ground
Her head buried between her knees
She hugged her knees, interlocking her fingers in a bond
She stood up after a while expressionless
Her ever cheerful face emotionless
Her eyes looked deep and sunken
She gave a pessimistic smile
She took one last look at the sky
She turned to enter the house looking even older
The genius business tycoon
Her Husband
A bright, shining and proud star of the generation
Like a meteor,
Fell from the astral river the night before
About the Creator
Ayomide Oyeyinka
I am many things
A Writer ✍️
A Poet
A Copywriter
A Nigerian
Greener Earth Enthusiast
I have my background in Mass Communication and the sequence Persuasive Journalism (PR&AD).
Ia
I pray thee, unto me, make mention of me to potential clients 😁
Keep reading
More stories from Ayomide Oyeyinka and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis6 days ago in Humans
Comments (2)
This was incredibly poignant and emotional. Loved your poem!
Beautiful poem!