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a boy is a battle.
he is full of fight with many foes...

within his eyes
are the fierce frights that has built a heaviness upon his lips.
of how Madam Monica modeled him into the giant pillar
that holds up many spouses,
and flood them with springs of satisfaction.

one stroke...
two strokes...
three strokes...
and a boy begins to choke
till he becomes a monster
made to feed on the groaning of a moaning girl.

another boy,
was a regular audience of a boxing match,
between his father and his mother.
and his soul has found failings
in forsaking the way he was trained to grow.
still he strives to melt his heart,
and remould it beneath his boulder.

and even I,
was a boy,
who was barely saved from a severe shatter.
for she drew my sword and it stood *****,
ready to ****.
and but for the timely thunder that rose to my aid,
I may just have been another lightning
that flashes by without a voice to bare me open.

but whom do we tell this tale to?

all because a boy must be a warrior,
he must stand strong till trauma look him in the face and flee.
for he must cover himself with steel,
and learn to camp his fear and withhold his horror.

a boy is a battle.
he is full of fights with many foes.
but the biggest of them all,
are the silent stabs swept underneath,
which no one is ever raring to hear,
nor bitter to believe.

For the boy child.
I have walked the lengths and breadths of a woman's body,
And known the beyond that lies beneath her glow.

I have travelled the valleys and the mountains of a woman's *****,
And understood the degrees of her fire and ice.

For a woman's body is a secret place
Where honey chose to hide at the depth of a sweet wine.

I have walked and I have travelled her corners,
Yet I know her not.
For time and again I find a new wonder,
And my lips sing and purr at the delight of her embrace.

I go back and forth
That I can give my crown
And become a slave in her safe
And a Knight in her nights.

For my will is killed when I sing her pore to streams
And reach her core for screams.

I have walked the lengths and breadths of a woman's body,
And known the beyond that lies beneath her glow.

Yet I am her prey,
Like a bare forest on a chilled night,
Longing for dawn.

There are spaces of fire in the realm of men,
That burns the soul and scares the mind.

I have made my heart a shield,
As I walk into this night
To court with death and dine with darkness.

In this night,
There are springs of tears to drink from,
And murmurs of silence to hearken to.
There are fears that groans like trembling graves,
And pain that bursts a feeble brain.
They are before me, where I cease to exist and know no grief,
For I am the black spot who had ceased to breathe and gone beneath.

There are five gods who have made men sick and shown them fear.




They are a flaming fire each,
Coloured in the colours of [D]arkness.
I was thought this by the first of the gods.

I treaded on in this dark night,
For my burden was light and my woes were fed.
But I was back again where my walk began,
And I knew that I was at the very [E]nd of a new beginning.

I began and ended over and over again,
Till my feet knew the length of every inch of the ground it trod,
And my soul learned to love loneliness.
Alas! I was [A]lone... the god without a worshipper.

Deep in the depths of this night,
There is a dawn.
I thought myself mad,
Until [T]ruth showed me how dreams are formed from darkness,
And how life was drawn from death.

My soul was heavy,
For darkness had treated me to a fine meal.
And I saw fear,
He was a twain that should never have met.
For he had [H]eaven and [H]ell in his belly,
And unleashes them at his free will to deserving souls.

There are spaces of fire in the realm of men,
That burns the soul and scares the mind.
These spaces are far more significant than we take them to be.
For there is heaven in death,
And light in darkness.

this is,
of nightmares in daydreams...

we flee from the sudden chase of heavy harms
bursting out from frightening dreams.
the hot pursuits that flashes past
like lightning over cloudy skies.

we saw sore shelter in the blood
whistling out a call to find aids
even as hunger was betrayed
and tongue wails as scary birds flew.

fleets of ebola fevered our voices,
rising from the shores like angry waters
to drown our rats in the poison of their own fever.

our defenses ran naked every single time
till it becomes a passage that leads
from frightening dreams to pleasant images.

beneath this angry shower
comes yet another nightmare.
a corona,
that comes in to lit the lungs from dark shades.
a chase by moonlight that stretches into daylight.

we flee on
from this sudden chase of heavy hounds
holding on to the hope
that our defences would run them out
and save our neck once again.

She knocked on my door,
And time skipped a tick.
I was met by a beauty,
Whose charm is far beyond nature.
Her eyes clear and bright,
Like freshly tapped palm wine,
I cannot help but to get drunk on them.

Her twin towers,
Constantly my North pole steers,
Till it shatters the limits of magic.
My problem was in giving myself away,
But this visitor my ailment cures,
As elixir sang me birthday songs.

I was engulfed,
My lip was the stake,
Her desires has just begin to burn,
As it caressed me into rubble of ashes,
Where the sun sing of dusk,
And the moon sing of dawn.

I am your heart,
And this beauty of whom I sing,
Is one you'd later learn to call LOVE.

Arise Countrymen and stand up to hail,
The bond that keeps us;
For plunges and plots could not countervail,
The strength of this force.
Pure love lives on in the kinship we share,
The blood in our veins;
The anthem we sing and pledge we declare,
Do swallow our pains.

When Mother gave tongues she did with honour,
And also with pride;
For she gave them all and even one more,
To bridge the divide.
She gave unity to conduct this song,
Like an orchestra;
And taught us to live together as one,
Joyful Nigeria!

(In celebration of Nigeria's 60th Independence).
Happy Independence Nigeria!
How sweet are the songs of the night?
Where there are no sounds,
For the ear listens to its own voice,
Releasing soft musical tones.

There are balances in rhythms,
But silence is perfect for the ears.
It takes hold of the drums
And beats them to sleep.

One may wonder,
Does the ear ever rest?
Yet silence when it breaks forth,
Becomes a sweet lullaby.

How soothing are the rhythms of silence?
That it gives warmth to a cold soul,
And hunts the stress that strains upon him.

A deaf man knows too well every pattern of this rhythm
That he can see noise from afar off
And smell disturbances from miles away.

Why then do we rage with noise,
And war with disturbances?

Shouldn't we bask in the rhythms of silence,
And learn how to be deaf.

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