This alphabet is inhuman

And it scares me in no little measure

Blood, Cells, Haemoglobin all in a Sickle

If only a world exist without all of these

But what is music without its notes?


So sigma stings this bad

And drowns the promise of tomorrow

At other times it is a twinge

Or like the conk of a knife tip on the balding scalp

Times are that you want to scream

But your voice takes a sink into cul-de-sacs

And then your skin gets chafed with anger and spittle

No, imagine how it feels to gasp

For air in a smokey kettle

An hour ; two hours or more

No, don’t even imagine it

When they say you are a wonk

Yet, like a sickle, you cannot cut straight A’s and B’s

Only like the end of the ladle – D

Just may be, C’s

I cannot moon into the summit of the stars

Shucks? So what if my dam bursts!

I weep into god’s heart

Knowing he has never lost a single battle

Not to the product of Sigma against sIGMA

Not to all the pains domiciled in my marrow

That makes me sickly sick; dour to boiling point


© Shittu Fowora 2012

3 thoughts on “Sigma” by writefight (@writefight)

  1. WOOW!!! Best take home line: /I cannot moon into the summit of the stars/ what a statement adorned with weighty imagery. Thank you for sharing.

    1. Thank you bright. May we never grapple with sick cells. Barka da xmas. Lol

  2. … a simply beautiful poem… love it from its Greek-undertoned title down to its very last line…

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