MY MYSTERY MAN

There's something enticing about mystery, that’s why abstracts are special artistry,

Something about his mastery, something that will go down in history,

As a big thing, that was in his story.  

He calls me Atis; he makes me feel at ease, He likes to play and tease, to joke, laugh and please,

He's my knight and shining armor, none can beat his sense of humor,

In his arms I feel so safe, or so I imagine I would.

The way he laughs, the way he smiles, we can talk and walk for miles.

His laughter, the highlight of his person, a thrill, a scorn, a question,

All in a quick succession, He's blessed with a heart of compassion.

When he's mad, all I wanna do is laugh,

That twitch he makes with his mouth, makes him look funny – all a bluff,

He has a baby face, and a laughter that’s never hampered,

A body so well built, a face so perfectly sculptured,

When we talk, I can hardly hear anything he says, 'cause I'm always stuck, staring at how his face plays.

There's something about those eyes,

They are bold, the kind of eyes that see through your lows and highs,

The kinda eyes that can burn you to ashes; leave you saying all ayes.

Eyes that can pierce through your heart; eyes that would make the moon shy,

Oh tell me, would you concentrate if he had such eyes trained on yours? YES? No you lie,

He's not your ordinary guy. He walks with the pride of a lion,

His head high like Zion. Just like a painter loves his caricature,

He loves to delve into literature, He crafts with the pen, that’s why I call him Ken.

He's proud of his den; you can bet he loves Heineken.

He's smart, he's handsome, and He’s not your weekend awesome.

Knowledgeability so priceless,

A sense of humor so matchless,

When I see him tonight, I'll let him know, I'll tell him everything,

I'll tell him how I can't think about Eurobond, not even tithing,

'cause I'm thinking about him, my mysterious thing,

I'll tell him how I wake up tired in the morning,

'cause when I sleep, he’s all over my mind strolling.

I'll tell him how I burnt my githeri,

'cause I was busy glaring at his photos; oh poor nyar gi Jerry,

I want to tell him everything, spill all like MS Moshene Terry,

But I'm afraid that when our eyes meet, there will be no merry,

‘Cause my eyes will bulge, his eyes will pierce through mine, my throat will run dry and words will disappear from my tongue. It will be all a tale fairy.

…………………. J ………………………………