Anatomy of Elegy
in mid-air a swinging scythe splinters a red bird
into smithereens of soulless songs coagulated
into powdery grey splattered on the fluffy forehead
of the sky. the unchristened arc; to fly is to be chary
of sharp things springing from earth’s belly.
is this not the chorus of every contemplation?
the greenery in earth’s veins is gutter of ghosts:
every root, rattled into murk remedies,
resurges with four hundred and forty hertz
of ache. we do not pray to be broken but
what are our bones without fractured oboes?
what are fractured oboes without lush larynxes
layered into dispositions of apocalyptic homecomings?
in mid-sermon, through a dale of wayfarers,
a clarinet runs an errand of death, the world
whisked into hypnotic melodies, a headset,
a watch weary of time, and feet fast-forwarding
to terminuses tainted by tongues of the tasteless.
Poem: Osieka Osinimu Alao
Image: 8926 from Pixabay