Where dreams are gold of thought
Where cloud are silvers of hope
Where future husband the street
Where ghost don’t crack bones of human.
This colour of African night depict water
A formless form of laughter tickling home
If this history be made of Kinta Kunte,
I will lit this weekend with a strange tune
Which will end up holding the image of forever.
May we meet again where cock are debris
of footsteps on the oceans of mysteries.
We might giggle with a different tale on
We may pitch our voices to the cold hands
of daring heart of thunderous elipsis…
We may trace home giants of illusions
We may not see the darkness in eve hush
noise, not through this armpit zipper of
services rendered in a torn lips of lost humanity.
May we meet again where we make muse
a knight with a name & face & identity
We’ll send forth our song to many places
where our mind have raced without a print
May we meet again where love crossed path
and time lose concentrations in the camp of
attraction of what we have finally become
May we might again as a pilgrims in prayer,
Our hands a home bringing tomorrow’ peace.
May we meet again and embrace wetness
Wetness of love and hope for another’ emotion
At the sight of the emptiness in the hallway,
We will stand to erase every ooze of doubt
Hold on between us death and life to conquer
this deafening silence may echo beyond shrunk
Nights of our skins before the sun unmask
May we meet again and again and again
Where we part no more with legs of departure.
©John Chizoba Vincent