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DEAD FLOWER

She still sits with legs crossed

and sleeps with open eyes.

The derangement, shock, and mental injury she nurses

A sad news, too young for formed ice.

The torture in her spirit, she did not think a life as this

Starvation in her kindred, a gradual semblance,

the church mice.

Her last words before she slept deep

Another black child born unwise.

The flower without sepal and petals

A reached menopause, a prize.

Belov-ed

Oh! None of my encomiums dared suffice.

She is now dead flower, 

she is off this hour

But he promised us change, a deadly lice or pregnant lies?
                       

                                OKOCHA OBED

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Author:

My name is Okocha Obed, you can call me Obeezy. I love to display aesthetics through my ink—I must say writing is my small world. I consider myself a deep writer; I say I am deep because I have discovered that part about myself, even, my fabulous audience share same view. I believe in connecting to all kind of persons as there is always something to learn from everyone. I see myself as an actor; to stay on the stage, I need to think ink. The voice is a reflection of myself and my conscience. I always felt I could be like superman while growing up. It was pretty ridiculous so all I did was dream of being a soldier. It was abortive. So I created a world where I could keep talking about the ills in my community but with other flavours to show I am growing into completeness. keep reading.

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