this is a sordid example of

an ordinated union, flitting

with the sad splinters of imperfection;

He looks at her,

but she's just another woman

down the street to him,

he can even read her eyes,

doesn't even know their colour

his presence is choked by

the boredom of her presence

When she sees him,

her soul begins to sleep,

at the hearing of those dry, withering,

wavering vibes that his still being elucidates

They are silent origami models,

creased and folded by the hands of

their parents imposition

in the house,

was a monochrome flow,

stale and silent,

they never even cared for each other,

the rings were hypocritical on their hands,

a symbol for the artificial marriage.

                                                          By Kakraba Afful