Distant purple plateaus seem so clear
Over ruddy hues of russet tans so near.
Endless undulating desert’s sand
Roasting in nature’s low geoid pan.
Sunburned sages droop under the heat;
A little shade from a lonely mesquite.
All this under a vast blue shroud,
And a single white billowy cloud.
Just a puff that is so desolate---
Perhaps searching for a missing mate.

Ekaette, rounded and complete
Paragon of African beauty
A lone daughter of Monsieur Morgan
Adored by many as a model
He was the father I never had

Ekaette, lady to the core
Cool and calculated in her ways
Groups regretted you weren’t a man
But you looked after your father’s house
Cared for the sick and raised their spirits

Ekaette, Florence Nightingale
A guiding seraph when in dire need
Mere seeing you, I fantasized love
I was shy and young to say the word
You were at hand, like my real sister

Oh, love
I know not how
The Heaven’s above
Breathe that vow
In which all life,
Sings without care
Sweetness in the
Palpitating air
When shall it rain
Down from the skies
To relieve the yearning
Of my deepest cries?

With my every aching moment
and with every breath I take,

I can even feel her near me
which I believe is not a mistake !

Because I know in my heart of hearts
she's out there looking for me, too!

The problem we seem to be having is
certainly nothing that's considered, new;

Down every hallway, history has completed
the answers will be lieing somwhere out there;

sometimes the shadows will end-up camoflauging things,
so the playing fields may appear to be unfair