And there is a God, Death and the Thighs of Young Women
If there is no blood, there is no life
If it’s not sweet, it’s no sin.
Gather the villagers, tonight we must drink from ancient gourds and speak of sacred things.
There is an ultimate climax that rocks the pant of every earthling, this marks the eve of his voyage into endlessness.
The boner breaks, the trees and weeds share pieces of your essence that escaped the mandibles of termites.
And they shall say;
“God is there in the deepest of roots where no wind dares to aerate
He sifts through layers of fetid putrefactions and collects what’s left of our souls and some detritus in the process”.
But do not be unduly electrified; the soul is just a lovechild of preachers and poets,
Reiterated a thousand times over until it wilts into a flat eternal song,
It rebirths itself in a river of blood and picks up a physiological role in the mind of almost every human.
Woe is me! The soul is not a conscience.
The woman was forged out of him, and for him? She became his sweetest sin.
These tales have no morals.
Poem © Abejide Michael Ayodeji
Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash