“Black is beauty” this she last heard in high school
Eight years have now gone by
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight
Black would have been beauty if her last boyfriend after high school
Had not rubbed in her face
You are not my taste
He said so,
After inserting his aggressive filament in her stigma
What more did he want to taste?
She thought, after him ploughing through her womanhood like a tractor
You are too black to be black
I prefer a light skinned kind of a woman, he went on
This was the dialogue
That put an end to their couple-hood
Now it is more than monologue
Between her and the her in the mirror
Seeing her she had become
Her that she was lured to
First, it was the rusting of the shimmering black on her skin.
Replaced by a colour similar to that of a dress worn by a ripe banana
Yellowish beneath a fading blackish and a pinkish rising
Yes, she was liked, appreciated and adored
Men serpentined at the threshold of her door
Yes this time around
She was the one that sang the song
She did not rub it on their faces,
She rubbed it on their *****
You are not my taste
I prefer a light skinned kind of man
You are too black to be black…

It is eight years now
And her skin is evident of a pink plastic plate fading under sunlight

What scope have I to know?
What field have I to explore?
For the desire to exalt the mind from the dank dark valley of the body.
Nothing. No a thing is mine knowledge of what weighs lesser than the wind.
Yet to claim mine honesty, I let the wind.
Failed I to quantify thy compassion.
So this queue of bouquets of words.
Splashing of sentences of flora.
For just as constellations pertain to the sky,
So art thou castellated within thine-self.

death is a -
.............wo
......................who
..............................woe
......................................man
W
O
m
a
n
Eventually man will
s..
e..
r..
p..
e..
n..
t..
i..
n..
e..
into her body
Tear gripping ecstasy
Obedience paid to laws of intimacy
death bears
..............smi
....................ills
.........................hills
s
m
i
l
e
s
She is dead to love.
She is alive to hate

A pen,
firmly sat in the bosoms of her fingers.
Tentatively displaying his virility on a paper.
That shimmers like it has just been immersed in blood.
The words,
written,
stink like burnt bird feathers

On Resilience

Silence assembles in my room.

A little snail is on the wall

Climbing about like a groom.

Is that all it knows.?

All it carries is a shell.

Might think, one, there is more

Climbing about like all is well.


silence is shattered in my room.

A little snail is off the wall.

From outside devoured the inside,a boom

No more climbing about.

The little snail...
Is back in its shell.