He’ll come on a pure white horse
that dissolves in your dreaming gaze
His offering of too perfect roses will
disintegrate in the sunlight
When he bends his joints they’ll
remind you of an era authored many times
You’ll know that only books can capture
this type of man burnt quickly by reality
But you make room for him in your bed
Can’t believe it’s just you in the morning
Finally alert you smell burnt roses...
By: Kossiwa Kiese Kinshasa Wa Logan
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