Obed Sarpong

The strange thing about love
Is that we usually are forewarned
Of the excruciating heartbreak
That is soon to come;
And must long be endured.
Vigils are held in those dark times
As tears form the dew of the night.

The frequent suspicions discarded,
On first thought for love’s sake
Only betrayed in hours, then comes doom
In the blink of an eye come too soon,
The seeds that form the roots
Of the unfathomable pungent fruits
Of love’s destruction.

Love’s future’s couched in ambiguous tongue
So perplexing for the sufferer to decipher
As with the interminable sea, bereft of wrongs.
Love’s splendour is alluring; an innocent deceiver.
Of like seedling we find in our love.
We are seedlings, siblings still growing,
Spread on the sun on seven beds—
Being nurtured

Obed Sarpong