Living is a cross That any one of the rock-faces Comprehends.
We are drawn To many seas. We drown wholesomely In the failures of confrontation. The rain Drenching Our doorsteps Has nothing to do With the simplest desires And lacerations We bring To the smallest acts Of living.
The child On the broken catwalk Hearing the sounds of our hunger Without understanding Throws echoes back To the earliest abandonments Of love.
Minor devastations preceding Horror Resonate the ineffable. The mothers that wake At the slightest sound And the fathers that Smoke all night And the rest of us who are Vigilantes from the demons Of oppressed sleep Find at dawn the clearest Images of bewilderment. Even the best things Collapse beneath the weight Of ignorance.
Living is a fire That any one of the wave-lashes Comprehends. ___ Source: http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
Deep inside the forested Grove. A candle lit dinner. The children play. They play with twigs. And branch to sticks. When the mood allows. The mood is different today. The twigs are sharp. The tree falls down. And kills them all. 'shall we serve pudding?'