my head is bloody & unbowed—
a resilient, wanted criminal holding
a glass while trudging through the
highway of storming vehicles. I am starting
to see my body as a lamb bred for execution or
a glassed cased specimen for experimental
biology. there’s an after effect when the sun
has leftovers on my skin and I am left to burn
all through this night— rubbing my body and hitting the barren air towards my pores.
the crow comes on the tree below & alights
because it still finds me alive— he’s waiting to own
My house of infested woods. How sad is it again
That the vultures do pick their bills for my body.
i don’t want to be tagged as part of a wasting
generation who delight in obscure darkness
& ignorance, rotting deep into fragile skulls.
For I grew in this place of a shrapneled sky & dusty
Clouds. Into the eyes of September, I read out myself open like a window.
a prisoner gets to mirror his face by
the barpoles that confine him to this cave
without rain & hear all he hears
all he hears are diminuendos of an arriving thunder & broken rays
through this grotto’s holes.
it’s obvious he’s thirsty & opens his mouth to the wind—
his throat needs a thousand baptisms. he prays these poles get
blown & the stones wouldn’t break his bones; so he could find
another light if there is. i wake up every day to
hold my drought-blotched face with dust & cry to gather
wisps to make a bed without slumbers. perhaps,
life is not a home for everyone & we would keep
running until we lose the enervated blood in our
Legs. this history of so much of grief or agonies had
made us cynics to the world of the living— man cannot live
well because these laws will lasso the sun & drag it
down on his head.
for this history is a dirty fabric & made up of thorny laws
that need cleansing, this earth needs cleansing.
Poems (c) Emmanuel Akin-Ademola
Image by createelement from Pixabay