Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won’t be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
“Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!”
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by…
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall you live by your sorrow like an oiled orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains…
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night, we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they are condensed the deeper they burn!demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don’t expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites, a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish alone, even if evil calls for good, I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are not paupers on the street begging for meat.
©John Chizoba Vincent