My hand is the testament to my guilt,
Engulfed within itself to conceal a growing sin.
I would watch with masked disdain, blood
Trickle, desire in its wake, nerves heightening
Downwards, towards the fulcrum of lust. Till
I am a fluidless duct, firing blanks. Till
I am nothing, nothing but a puppet
Jerking to the rhythm of damnation.
My room is a museum of sticky aftermaths,
A snake swallowing its tail, the continuous cycle to conceal
Spilled secrets. The
Pulse of exhilaration inspired; the
Rushing epiphany of guttural melodies,
Series of waves finding its ending
Within bulging shores, and each
Ending, only but a new beginning
But sometimes the seeds splatter
The evidence clinging to fingernails
And now you can judge a man
Who soullessly sacrifices millions of swimming souls
For a single slice of fading euphoria.
Poetry: Emmanuel Idem
Photo by Scott Sanker on Unsplash (modified)