Nigeria
There is no sky without you,
no mists, no beams of sun,
all our hopes die in a whisper
and all of the wrongs are executed.
Shallow void in the deeps of a poem
surfaces whilst there may be no sky,
you then appear and shine;
shine within the dark
that smothers our heart.
No poem – no sky;
there is no breath
without ‘You and Us’.
We Survived
Had we fallen before we leapt?
Our wings would possibly’ve burnt
within the fires of terrific desires
to show into ashes wayward.
There’s a silent sob in me still,
an echo for the times lapsed;
there’s a river of soul’s blood spilt
over useless endeavours beyond.
Only when I die will you manage to banish me,
best after I prevent writing
will you damage me….
…in two halves;
the primary goes out to the wind,
and the second remains
to sleep and cuddle
next to him.
You think we had fallen
earlier than we leapt?
But I assume
we're gliding on an angel’s wing.
A Letter to My Ex
I don’t think my words will touch you
but spoil you in one million particles.
The whisper of my soul will deafen you
or, on the other hand you may be blinded
by sprinkles
of darkness in me;
it warms up me up.
Once more, I am an artist desolate,
my phrases will damage your sunrise!
Grief
Last night a dream died.
So did a person.
Last night a song ceased
however the notes still play
a melody that wraps a coronary heart
inside the thick layers of despair.
How will we breathe now
if the dream is lifeless?
And desire? – Just a false companion.
We are Nothing
We have created not anything
and from nothing we are born;
we've those empty arms
to wipe away the tears forlorn.
We die as not anything -
a grain of dirt
within the wayward wind
where we think we last.
Nay, our souls roam
from nook to nook
of this dot world.
We are nothing
but love worms.
Resound
Don’t let the rhyme dissipate.
The poetry in you still lives.
Don’t let the rhythm evaporate;
this silence kills
every word; only tears sing
about inveterate solitude;
kiss them away, please.
I want to make love to poetry
once again.
I want to feel its rhythm shatter me
into pieces.
I will not let the rhyme dissipate!
The poetry in me still resonates.
Dreams?
Dreams are just an underdog for destiny –
jeering at our face;
only a wisp of steam inside the air
while the educate leaves
we're possibly late.
These succulent goals became
dry;
waned inside the wind – a storm,
at that point passed on.
So did we.
Where have we buried them?
Dead or Alive?
Help Me!!
Entwined with these fingers,
thick gossamer of dreams -
weary, asleep.
Should I improve my arms
into a storm
and let it tear their wings?
Mercilessly for the hundredth time
Should I toss them apart?
They convey nothing but pain,
they may be our first loss of life!
In this way, I passed on in the sea tempest.
