Woods and termites, reverence and profanity,
Of godship, of glory and nothingness.
When those sacral relics commences a siege on
My spirit, I hope the termites have found a haven on your doorstep.
I, happily beleaguered—the wood, yearning for worms from time unknown,
Creeping like shape-shifter’s shadow, look, it has slipped in.
Title: 4:34:18 PST
form new existence
it is in this way that
nothing in this universe
is ever truly lost
Will not come suddenly
But in bouts of doubts
In whispers of held back truths.
A River Of Honey
This love is an Enugu themed
story of survival;
of weeds growing
through cracks in concrete pavements.
Its words are melodies
and its voice is a crushed
For in bars
painted the silent colours
of cobalt blue,
it crouches in corners blowing smoke,
trying to quench fires.
This love is a river of
honey filled with thorns,
filled with picture frames of men
burning in a sea of rubber,
men embalmed in blood
from the marrow of their own bones;
those that held it in the dark
and twisted it till
their souls snapped
and ice poured from the
hollow sockets of their eyes.
This love is a man
filled with keyless symphonies,
engorged with the cheers of mobs
as they watch him burn
in front of his mother.
This love is a boy
crying on the bank of
a running river,
all his life.
There is a boy burying
your children in soft wood.
At the next full moon
you will writhe and bleed for his sin.
Sometimes a Man Tries to Hang Himself on a Wooden Cross
But sometimes a man tries with his hands
to trace the shape of the rope they tried to hang him with
or the size of his prison.
This big. This wide. This empty, he stands where the things left behind are standing,
or crumbling or begging to be loved,