BULLETS ON WHEELS
In my palms, trees rev.
Roots, summed for the teeth of glassy blades,
Earth washed into grains of fading browns.
A pathway with maimed edges
A song on branches awaiting abandon
Walking staffs fearful of earthen shakes
Eyes fixed on a festered passage.
In my eyes, leaves sway
Wings flutter in waves hissing in pain
Distance of lush lights
Footstool of blackouts.
Whirlwinds avid for muds and thatches
Tsunamis raging from the toast of staffs –
Red caps jugging on wheels;
Festivity in ruin.
On my feet seas steam,
Gurgles of screams drown halfway.
An open palm shore for heals fighting for breath
Footprints fleeing the mares of homestead,
Boats for bones lagged on Heaven’s pathway.
Poem: Sunday Wura Best
Image: Christina Victoria Craft on Unsplash