An Awakening of Souls
From the turnaround of seas, I found an envelope halfspread.
It read ‘what comes in remains, trapped.’
I took it for a mouth with enclosed speech that came too far
In the fire of its belly a root cultivates,
Not all give life when shook; so I rise, an emblem for mirrored transects.
In the evening, I am a buffalo in flight, existential on weighted transits with beliefs higher than the sky
In my dreams I am a falcon carrying truth and gospel
That what stays high need not come down
From scarves beneath eyes, flames find life.
A traveller finds a spot hunched, his breath an encapsulation of belief.
You find him with worry, your mind a ruminant starving.
What prowls in the dark seeks
And why does the bird scream if not to be seen
These tires spin into smiles, toothpasting matched memories
In the liver of being is a cross, a ladder and smoke
Nothing stays longer than sadness
A memory of tears fickle and your mind lights, a fed damsel in deep water…
From the dead I awaken, full of life
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As a Comma Gliding through torn Edifices
At the cliffs of madness, sense sits.
My mind crawls through edifices memorising faces and beings.
The drums from the sky awaken and the clouds lose the weight they’ve carried.
The zincs on my forehead mirror the sadness within, and every breath is a chore executed.
The windows in my palm fill the spaces left by dreams.
This testament, a billboard for proclamation.
With open eyes are tires running out of frustration,
Like a shepherd devouring a flock
Every day I awaken with doubts and doubts
There’s a trickle for every time these thoughts prowl.
In the process I become a moving comma, a circumcision of mistakes
Half the time I rise like an umbrella, shield to all with beatings for praise…
And every day I wear this smile still, an echo from a perforated door.
There are gaps in these sockets, like hollows in rooms building cobwebs.
Sometimes I’m a line drawn across the field, a mat for steps.
What becomes of a ball kicked… a lullaby for seven calling themselves kings.
When I pray it’s not in expectation, it’s to remind myself that words too can be said.
This weight in silence fans around crafting ripples of phlegm
There’s nothing here but dreams, hopes and glasses slipping from shaky hands.
On my lips are whispers, that the day I breathe my last, I do so a god with wings for brackets.
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A Declaration of Intention
There are days I find myself submerged in memories I’d rather forget.
Like that goodbye made soon, the smile rather held, the hug rather kept.
Being human is a cycle of never growing, of making wrong choices and rationalizing them…
When I close my eyes it’s all the love I’ve lost flooding, a whirlpool of storms.
I’ve never known how to hold so every evening I burn and arise at mornings cold all over.
This sun doesn’t bring warmth so with duty I force myself to run my own mind.
I see terror, like a three-year-old in an elevator for the first time.
And “All I have loved I have alone”
It’s morning and this cycle returns
How do you define desire
A turnaround, or a memory sucked in?
A whisper or a goodbye rushed?
Mine is a flower sprinting, a rotation of roses in storms and thorns for embrace.
These hands are weary, I’ve carried too much to hold still…
I tear every part from me to clothe yet with my pieces you stab me.
I show you this world and you give another.
On days I keep you warm you reward me with frost.
The day I wash you off it won’t be with water, it would be with skin peeled off to bleed away all I’ve attached thanks to you.
The day I let go of you it won’t be with sweet wine, charm and milk; it’ll be with vitriol, spiel and bursts…
And with a full heart, I’ll wish you the worst…
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Poems © Okolo Chinua
Image: pixifant pixabay