He was either looking for a home in his mother’ thought;
A place where lost freedom is found to be a lurking land.
He was either searching for the colour of a new song,
a song of colour and crystal ray from the shadow of her heart.
We define threnody with a moonful of sadness written all over the stake of our eyes.
Now, I’m not the only soul captured with blazing lies.
I’m not the only soul that went that route planted by our leaders.
Culture defined each of our eyes searching home.
It wasn’t the lanes that drum the beat we dance to we followed…
No, it wasn’t here that fear to feed our fears when a new bottle of wine made us miserable.
It wasn’t from here that a tale was told of graves with mouths.
Leaving was another way to say goodbye
without having to loose yourself to tears.
You researched into you:
A dream of loneliness
the joy of solitude.
a mournful of confirment committed
thousand poems birthed bravely in the process of telling a story that never existed, is the expressway of making a salty savage into life.
In the future of our past, we remain dormat
a boy left through the eyes of his mother
carrying the identity of his father’s name
carved on a frame of tears.
He jumped many rivers to pay prayerful
homage to those things he learnt at his
custom taught us how to sew our laughter
with our mother’s smile.
We leave to live again on the soil left for
us to walk on.
We are what tradition labelled us to be
Knitting our needs to become spirits and souls
& ellipses of trauma housing those things we won’t let go sometimes.
We battle to come to the bossom of our
mother to learn where shadows travel to
when the light goes off.
If you are looking for me in this poem,
you won’t see me but; between the paces
of the boy who left town in search of his
identity through his mother’s eyes.
©John Chizoba Vincent