what is this poet talking about? The leaves danced the alingo. This evenings breeze flew around majestically. Notwithstanding the beauty of the evening, the young man paced up and down the corridors of the labour room; his heart housed a thick bundle, a mixture of sadness and joy. Anticipation built up within his feeble heart. Adrenalin made several journeys from the glands to the spine and back through his skin. Sand-like ghost pimples scattered all over his upper limbs and sweat flowed freely like showers of blessing. Within the labour room, a warrior lay, legs apart. Tears flowing in unison with that of the man outside. The anticipation could kill a living horse. A soft pillow lay just beneath her brain house. A million and one activities tended to blow the whole system in pieces, but the warrior fought on. Then, the table was set, the angels stood at akimbo. The Boss stood unseen, pampering the head of the weakened warrior. Screams of PUSH filled the evening air. The warrior responded. The man outside could not help himself...he simply sank into the wooden bench, beside my unseen frame. And I, Gabriel, not a prophet, nay an angel, witnessed these things. So, it came to pass, that the shrill cry of a child, a duplicate of the very warrior that bore her, was heard. The angels began the celebration while i walked away to witness other wars in the times before the now!
Posted on: Mon, 27 Jan 2014 14:36:35 +0000
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