NYAMEKYE

The gift shop is stocked with nectar-filled drupes

yet laden with lore that keeps me at bay—

A kind my liquid heart looses warmth to pay 

and my Ferris wheel mind rides to goops

Conceding that Shakespeare’s muse drew breath still

an inquest seek i would of Romeo’s crude fate

that bethought love’s end with plentiful weight

or Juliet’s feigning that choked with deadly swill 

Culture shrills for new days to come with gifts

and these days love is as chocolate cake

ate with fondness and shit out like sour steak 

which wrests with my tongue for not making rifts 

On lone days i will to scream i love you

the same corny way i call you God’s Gift

But like most gifts of God with trifle i lift

and end up discarding to later rue

My etchings of you carry manuscripts

and each poem is as the lines on my palms

With stuck on tomorrow bolded in psalms—

A hope reverie to raise gifts from crypts