The dark is bliss

The dark is bliss

What is the meaning of life
enmeshed deep in flagrant
waters. Gulping out bubbles
to the air.
And after sun dry,
smells like the slums of Ebuta-Metta.

What’s life itself, tossed
and whipped. Matched
and kicked. Later, seen
on the lagoon of a Lagos
bridge, floating like an empty bottle.

Where’s is the insanity of
light after an aged
darkness. After the darkness
has pierced deep to our dampened
skins.
We became sadomasochist.

So we don’t need this light
any longer. We have waited
under ten thousand moons.
The light might be strange
to us. Blinding lights.
The dark is bliss.



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