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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() three sixty five days ago _ was when death sneaked into our home and wrapped a towel around your knee dragging you far into a night that ceased to become day. the night you were christened by death, i mean the night you turned an undertaker's item stuffed down the belly of earth you became a new name stached in history. the air reeked of the aura of tongues sore with grieving songs. when i say coated paper now hold your presence at home, i mean the photograph
of you are everywhere. alone. in a suit frame in the living room, full taped on our wall which wears the colour of the earth that gulped you down its throat like wine out of bottle into its brown body sometime ago, perhaps before or after you journeyed to the sky, i mean the night death willed you to God, you munched softly on the morsels of Amala as though you were afraid to swallow. you wobbled gently on the Agbantara, it belched a creaking sound that screamed of its weakness, with eyes that appeared retreating to their caves you beckoned to me and told me about death_ how you thought it to be a dilated fence _ of dread & how you saw it as a rough, rugged sea you'd never have the prowess to sail across. the night trenodies tossed our lullabies into thorns, i mean the black, blank night death tightened its fangs around your body, before the men washed you over and over before mother's body snapped like a weakened tree branch & before father sowed you beneath the infertility of the soil, you raised alarms of seeing death shimmering at you at the doorstep, i was by your side on the cold, concrete floor _ one hand caressing your hair follicles, the other interlocked with yours when death worked his fingers into the knot muscles against your spine; the news of your death fell into my ears like pins into tranquil water. yesterday was when i passed by your grave, i still feel your unsettling presence & so i cursed iku, and the doctor that pronounced you dead, and the Keke that conveyed your body and the earth you were tucked into_ the earth that interlocked my view. i wrote this poem when I heard a poet say _ we are mere characters entertaining God _ and then I wonder whether God was watching when death swooped down and carried you off; gliding away with you grasped in hooked claws_ into his wilderness so take this poem God, as a gift of thanks. i hope you get entertained Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
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