By Olúwádáre Pópóọla
All things are lost,
And home is a culinary for them
My father is an archaic man
And has a still smile in photo frames,
Because his body is an unexiled lingo
I still tell him the things we call men
Are a mirage
And a closer stall will bring the earth to our noses
My home is the buried places of a culture,
Tough roads to joy,
We & it, a demo of anathema
We draw lives from ourselves,
A butterfly from nectar,
A rosary from wishful hands,
Tears from a melodrama,
A female praying mantis beheads its male counterpart
And will soon be a mother
I tell her not to worry,
If there is a bag of bones, then there is a bag of flesh
Today, I’m a wild flower
In a meantime of filled mouths
& tomorrow, I’m a broken song
In ellipsis where grief lingers
The day is an artist that understands the lingo of grief,
Changing its loincloth into what evolves night
Our fathers chose to call a type of exile their home,
But for love,
We gave its lingo buoyance on our tongues,
And our mothers received eyebags in return
In the hour of grief,
The stars are the lampstands,
Singing of a leaving,
The moon is the praying mat on our patio,
Telling us to seek our joy in lost places
The dawn is answered prayers
That we indeed find joy in exile
Author:
Olúwádáre Pópóọla (he/him) is a poet or so he thinks, a student of Microbiology and a Sports Writer for a media company. He writes from the famous city under the rocks and longs to see the world without discrimination of any form. The best of his names given by his grandfather, he is learning how images are made from words. Find him on Facebook and Twitter @Kunmi_sher.
This piece is a part of DISTANCED 2.0.
Mind blowing. Nice write-up
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