Fickle Feeling

The formless wind,
The morning call from distant birds,
Maybe they're all trying to tell me something.
The fickle feeling
In many sad hours.
Drumbeats of life
In this quiet room
With thronging voices,
I'm going to find a way.
For as a bird spreads out it's wings
Ready to mount the sun,
I dream to fly.
But low in this pit I feel my feet sink,
If I hold, if I grasp,
If I call to the light,
"Let me down a rope. Help me rise!"
Maybe I'd find relief and exult.
But morning turns into darkness,
And dusk to new dawn,
And I'm waiting all alone,
Hoping, praying, dying in despair.
Fighting for the rainbow
Waiting in the corner.

by Peace Nkeiruka Maduako

Peace Nkeiruka Maduako is a Nigerian writer who is often inspired by paintings and art that tell stories. She has works on Calla Press, Kalahari Review, SweetycatPress anthologies, SpillWords Press, Screen Crust Magazine, Cultural Reverence and several anthologies. She resides in Owerri, Imo State.