My Enigma

I'm tired of hearing I need to be figured out.

I'm not a puzzle to be solved, not a question to be answered.
I don't see you hold your breath and wait for the wind to tell you how it sighs and bends the stalks of daisies
I see you smile as the breeze caresses your hair and cools you on a sweltering August afternoon
I don't see you close your eyes and refuse the stars their shine until they unravel the mysteries of the heavens 
I see you gaze, wide eyed, upon the burning celestial bodies that dot our universe
I see you drunk off wanderlust as the planets silently sing the beauty of the unknown 
The wind and the stars are questions that linger, yet you drink them in without hesitance 
I may not shine as bright
I may not refresh quite the same way
But I am 
And solving the greatest mystery within me cannot win my heart.
Running life's race alongside me, knowing it exists and falling in love with me while acknowledging the magnificence of this enigma I hold
That, my darling, 
will bring me to my knees.


Ugonna Wachuku


Nightingales and whistling
pines are calling my name.


Clouds and shadows are
following my footprints




The way is so silent and lush.
But there are thorns and thistles
in the grass.


There are pink roses and blue
flowers. I walk this road slowly.
I trail my own footprints carefully
because I have been this way before.


I have seen those roses in your
heart before. And now, I do not
need any old time prophet to tell
me how your thorns feel. I do not
need your footprints to show me the
way either:


I will follow mine; even on thistles
and thorns because I have been this
way before. I know the soothing voice
of that noble nightingale on heaven's
pathway so relieving and hopeful.


I know that beckoning, still small
voice in the hollow of my heart.
I know the homely pine's whistling
voice in my ear. Surely, my footprints
are clear enough.

And gladly, I will, certainly,
on this walk home, hear that
refreshing, still small voice
in the pleading hollow of my
humble heart because nightingales
and whistling pines of home are
still calling my eagle-name...


I will be home...
I will gladly be home
for the nightingales
on those homely
whistling pines and
palm trees...


I will gracefully be home.
I surely will because those
inspiring nightingales and
whistling pines of home are
still calling my eagle-name


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