by the tired, busy mouth of the evening; where the only art is entering you squat, bare in the corner of darkness suffering and smiling; searching for the love of another darkness there! i mistook you for a lost shadow, for i let you go let you go.
before now, i slept into the is same darkness waiting to be ferry into tomorrow; thinking the large body of retrospect past is immutable but can't convince my pen that the only poetry in nigeria is her present —messed-up by the same gone, ageless people we revered, we have to let them go let them go.
into the red dark past nigeria, there is a labyrinth tree whose ripe fruits are love and poetry but was intentionally neglected; we let it go, let it go.
looking through this tree i can see into the future; above and beneath — the ****** hatred of death and grave's settlement, that we can't let it go, let it go.
gently —gently and gently i want to sink the deepest borehole of poetry into this tasty period where the only water is not only bullets; but nepotism, tribalism neglecting naked reality that brewed the wine that we can't let it go let it go.
the largest wound in our hearts where the past bullets pierced our comforts i want to heal it before i let it go, let it go.
i sauntered through this discomforting pain; climbing through — the disagreements betrayals, backbiting debaucheries and raw selfishness — minds who don't want to let it go, let it go
i enter the past the way good poetry entered the indolent through its untied roads and whispering potholes with the hope that not all nigerians are stupid through this silent tired, busy mouth where the only poetry is entering you must broad your search; night is also an unemployed graduate, wanting to let to go, let it go.