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Girard Tournesol Feb 2019
Be the places you will become
Live the lost days
Don't bother melting the past
Live today thawn
Remember only tomorrows
Filled beyond full love
Read it Say it  Dream it Feel it
Believe
thawn
And this song fell out from my father's lips:
Of boys learning to drop the corpse of their
parents' bodies on the high mountain of Jos,
Of  girls who came home learning to place fingers on the holes that evil men dug;
Of children learning to empty themselves
With lies & truths about what happened now, about what happened in Benue and pleateu,
Of those stories that escaped through our mother's nostrils as she became past tense.

And this wants to make you leave your body
to a place where lost is freedom to enjoy.
yesterday When teeth fell from our mouth,
We threw them to the zinc for tomorrow.
We never knew they became dancers in
a battle field, making glittering white war.
We wired our way into abstract destructions
We bottled our knowledge to the river bank.
I am not alone in this nightmare of want
When my country men became object of
ridicule, I was never among them to core.
treasure this thawn into dirge of goodness.


Help me knit this morning with a song,
trace Adkins into Wooten of silence
We archived our routes to another smothering
Snow in red places before dawn.
Help me gather the laughters of those girls
Help me tell mother that sin is not a reproach
Tell father that Satan was an angel of light
Not a mystical mysteries as told by all.
If Allah allows the vehicles of my thought
To decamp from the camp of Moses.

When you get to Lagos, don't allow a bus to
carry you pass those graveyard called bridge.
a trailer fell from one of them at Ojuelegba
and another one fell in Ibadan without the express.  There we saw a boy' tale told in
Fe-Buhari in pains & gory and eel mystery.
He carried a song on his shoulder to crying
Forgetting there on the express way has his father's last prayer points & footprints...
There he died also hoping to pick his
father's dust groaning without a comforter.

I whispered these words in secret
Tell nobody that somebody told you the body
of the storyline before the ****** erupted.
Till everything becomes breeze, I am not
still a poet but a messenger of the gods.


©John Chizoba Vincent
TheBoyHero
Riley  Mar 2021
Two fewer drags
Riley Mar 2021
Dwindling down, sans ​wasted potential, I let myself spin until dawn
New rise means shrugging off the ire
I live here now, despising the desperate thawn
It's only consequential that I relinquish my crown

Plot holes like potholes with ****** knees from begging
A preference of adobe over concrete slab
Someone has shuffled it, and by someone I mean me
Flamenco tip-toed steps I am constantly reneging

This yellow underbelly no longer seems so drab
A ravishing reluctance with which it astounds a convoluted loser of galloping gunfire
I'm no longer pitching myself as a pawn.

— The End —