This gratitude for life is coated with a bitter glaze—what feels like the only combination of emotions suitable for the inexplicable nature of consciousness. Strange, but a special form of peace accompanies these thoughts. A compromise between self and acceptance. For acceptance alone has always left an unsatisfying texture on my tongue; the sour taste of pretence, lingering—Stockholm syndrome. To be locked inside a home built on the foundation of madness, seduced into a slow dance in the loving embrace of despair. My God! And as I watch these bones turn to dust, it becomes clear that this anger cannot be directed towards man; they too are mere victims, hoaxed into the pursuit of greatness although we have abandoned good as a prerequisite. Nor can it be directed towards self, for my palms never touched the ingredients of Genesis. My God, these quarrels are with the nature of existence itself—aimless. Alas, in this notepad I shall shelter my screams. And with my neighbours, I'll nurture my love.
****
I've Never Made
A Mistake.
Stubborn old heart,
I’ve let acceptance take the wheel,
But locked the keys inside the trunk,
So together we sit by the roadside,
Pondering,
Is it wiser to admit how simple it really is?
To be shackled by a world,
That can call us home whenever,
How empty it must feel,
To lose what one never had,
To build houses atop l***,
When our only home is time.
Perhaps it’s best to march on,
Trekking up the steepest of hills,
Just to pivot at its peak,
As I look down and see all my mistakes,
Now stood atop a cliff,
Winter takes a solemn breath,
Gazing through squinted eyes,
At calm waters fostering secrets,
And as ambushed bones crumbled,
Piercing through a lover’s flesh;
As the skin weeped profusely,
Painting solid waters a poignant red,
Beneath the hills and valleys of thy chest,
A drummer plays songs of life,
Fear not; though ye know not,
If this music comes as friend or foe,
For free falling resembles flight,
Until gravity’s true colours unfold.
BREAK FROM
TORONTO
I sit, still,
Watching the world fast forward,
As whispers of a formidable breeze,
Give orders to the marching clouds,
I wonder where their journey leads,
Or whether we’ll meet again,
They wonder why I disobey,
Rallying cries of a mother's breath,
But, they know nothing of me;
Nothing of the wounds I keep,
Nothing of the reasons I sit, still
And I, nothing of them.
ANIKULAPO
An abstract portrait,
Decorated with the battle scars of man,
Was hung upside down,
Atop cracks of a docile wall,
Who watched as beady eyes,
Filled the room with noise.
Oh, how could one make,
Such a grave mistake?
APOLLO
IS KING.
Tired arms rejoiced,
As a final fork in the river approached,
But mundane dreams of home,
Proved no match for oh captain's curious soul,
Soon calm waters met the sky,
As utopia faded away,
Through uncertain terrain they sailed,
Cursing each and every wind.
"Composure, my comrades",
Said the captain of a sinking ship,
"There lies a needle in this haystack,
But to find it you might bleed,
And if you find it you will be,
A great man, holding a needle."
DREAMS OF
DUNDAS STREET
For a sweet, fleeting moment,
I’ve made a desert of my mind.
Crickets converse with hissing tires,
That kiss these wet roads,
Noise; mixed to perfection,
Like a night at the Apollo,
For just a few seconds;
A sweet, fleeting moment,
Just enough to remember,
The great fear of missing out,
The earthy taste of saliva,
Or the tortured cries of Dundas Street,
Faint slurs mixed to perfection,
Another night at The Apollo.
I, FOR I
I rise with each sun,
Mourning sweat that escapes my skin,
As I search for missing parts,
Of a heart you said I broke,
I'll piece fragments back together,
Fill the cracks with tainted l***,
Hoping some day I can say,
This one looks stronger than before.
GAZA
Aloof;
Taking casual sips of muddy waters,
As rain droplets surf the gutter's steel;
Nosediving into the concrete arms of Mother Earth,
Weeping; she guides glistening streams,
Through cracks where tired ants rest,
Silent chaos at my feet,
While a cool summers breeze,
Whispers to me songs of sleep,
Alas, look at the world,
I heard it turns.
SOUTHERN
BREEZE
Like a thief in the night,
I gather these thoughts,
And walk them through Alberta’s snow,
Act. I
None shall pass
Not the sun, nor the rain
Just the bullish southern breeze,
Still, baby cupid pleads his case
To stoic men with a cause
Blinded by virtue
And a vow to protect lands
Where fragile houses lay
Only shadows at the window
Until faulty bulbs flicker
Shedding light upon a face
Where tomorrow’s wrinkles wait
Every line a forgotten story
Some lessons need no name
Oh, how foolish it is to be
Lost under heaven
When only heaven awaits.
***
Act. II
I tried to walk like Jesus,
But he walked in different shoes,
Too big for mine, Size twelve,
Father, don’t judge me,
I had to leave room for error.
Together, they laughed.
Act. III
I tried to walk like Jesus,
But he walked in different shoes,
Cause the devil knew his father,
They fought over a woman,
Who made these clouds so pretty,
And made sure birds keep singing,
I wonder what they’re singing...
Maybe singing to our father,
Hopes of fixing crooked beak,
"Smite these hornets at our feet,
And guide our flight,
Through this here,
Southern breeze."
A. A. UZOMA
Illustration Dio Mikota
