Night Held into Verses of Disaster
Tonight, hearts are vesseled by burdened bodies flung into far-deserted lands where drunken souls droop, seeking solace in the silent depths of solitude.
Somewhere in another chapter of this broken tale, I am an aging metaphor of faded smiles shape-shifting gently into grief. I behold the stark portrait of how this land lost its glory to the atrocities of men. I write of the day a stray bullet harvested my neighbor's breath and hurled him into his grave; thus, his sons became monsters, roaring tirelessly for vengeance.
In Sambisa, a girl's body is laid bare, stripped of beauty, and forced to learn a new language of blood. This girl is not my sister, and you must pray she happens not to be your sister too.
In Gaza, a five-year-old boy is stranded between the pointed teeth of death and a rare chance of survival. Call it a bloody scene in a horror movie, but I tell you, in this movie, even the director knows not who the next victim is, as the flying rockets may land on any roof, claiming the lives of an entire family. I hate to throw a punch; likewise, I hate to be punched.
Somewhere in the realm of untold stories, I am a boy carrying the troubles of an old man; I am a rusted vessel of burnt incense with watery eyes lifted up to the gates of heaven, that through my voice, God may hear the cries of homeless orphans dispersed in the refugee camps of Benue.
Tonight, I am already drunk, and poetry becomes the only alcohol I must take in order to heal from the problems of this psychotic world. Oh! Find me peace; find me a route, for all I seek is an escape.
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