earlier today, the sun & my forehead contended: death is a walk to life, & two tiny brown ruminants, perched on iya roheemoh’s hearth, still steal flamy glances; simmering, burning evenings on her inglorious grave. come; the Love of God & the Fellowship of the Holy Spirit drive unpigmented horses (in us) in diacritic circles like the idi ore mi l’emi o fi si we whooshed last week wednesday while everyone wept for us on earth. i feel nothing when you speak of stiffness of the heart; i once relinquished a sister’s courage for okada to the palms of a sheep, unperturbed scions, crossing the cloudy osogbo street & we assembled broken pencils plus resilience from the sneering gutter. i am blacker (greyer) than mother’s creamy ashes & the leviathan you sketch on salt-soaked papers to mr darlington, your favorite father.
ArtisansQuill| Celebrating Wordcraft 