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stowaway on an engine hung

what is the end of; bleed of a stone, and you die for
herald helmed some rubbished synagogue

stage one: atomic kitten who display their glory for stars,
candle light and the soul quenched, abominable
so thus; why does the coffin maker pray for business
not that he bemoans the man and his fall,
for currencies he assumes it- business as usual ,
on my drop box and the lawn of my fields,
I needed no certain feel than only the carpeters grass,
coffee was getting ready, my cup knew my mouths taste,
I sat, and decided to read my dailies , o how harshly!
how gruesome , how this singular rider I can never
plight with such transgression , the boy cropped only two drops of eyes
these have stayed long, for I can never misjudge .

it read; the immigration practitioners seeing this belly in the worm
uncrushed hair of a scallywag, frail, shivering
red blood stuck between his eyes-
surely said an apron of a pharmacist.
'' does this not move molecules of transparency
to see oblique why pressure has found hyssops ,
all over my garden as little buzz, my bugs
eat fairer taste of sunlight , than this boy,
it seems he comes from a country where
the hungry in the streets file themselves like ants
prancing on a next available waste bin
to taste the goodness and graciousness of life".
in tears of almost, the pharmacists, she checked his pulse,
he was dead alive, she hovered around his head,
there was no ointment, she shook also,
the wrist of the boy by his hand, yet his
motions were uncompleted in that he injected death,
" death, no" shrieked after seeing polymerization of polyesters .

when the engine creaked , he was at the shaft
directly at the iron feet of a bird, he hung on
and in his thoughts " my country drowns,
I think stow away is a noble death"
if I never omitted one line it said again
" healing , the country needs,even than this boy"
of his country his briefs and her bra,
lodged in a hotel with the money he looted
and those that cash in from the states bankruptcy.
they say yet- they want to call upon the holy spirit,
to tar and build roads for them,
from occasions only to show proud extravagance,
that's when the celebrant is dancing with money, under his feet
the land is associated with biochemists , printing bills,
but surely I ask it must have been an integration
tarries far from where we lodged ,betrayed , now no food
even this poor coffin maker he prays for food,
but his foods are given from the torch of blindness,

something gets thinking like PLOT SIX : a genesis of transfiguration
it cooled more than his bellies rumblings, sitting on coals
to care their bin for him, at life, at sudden
though this coffin maker I wail for him too:
there is nothing for the poor to grave,
in there his face, I hope he doth see his ends yokemate
why the candle nights and the soul... only dream.

Editing stage: 


so I will assume you want the "raw truth".

I'm sorry Emeka, but this is not poetry. This is prose with line breaks. It may be good prose, but it is not poetry.
There is no consistency in its rhythm. There is no "music" in its structure.
I personally liked the length, but that's me.
The subject is intense and deserves poetry, but I'm afraid this is not it.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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