Treasures;not cherished

(for boys who became adults long before puberty)

Every ticking a clock makes is a reminder;

Somewhere a boy child is dying, slowly

Of pains that have rested so long in his ass.

The thunder sure storm for reasons.

Maybe it’s echoing the boy child’s cry,

Or perhaps the rainbow is here solely,

To feed his eyes with a thing called beauty-

A once in a lifetime experience.


The sky is a recycling container

Sugary droplets falling off the boy child’s cheeks,
It absorbed and poured down to us as rain.

The river below his eyes never gets dried;

It’s crafted on his face so many tributaries.

From the pit of the hell planted beneath his skin,
The sun too brings to us heat;

Burning our skins to let us know of how this child

Has died more than thrice or so.
With each ticking a clock makes;

Somewhere a boy child is from within, dying

Of pains that have rested so long in his ass.

Read this also about the Boy Child

About The Writer

Ayouba Toure
Ayouba Toure

Ayouba Toure is a liberian writer, poet.

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