Streets lying defeated aside their very nature of oblivion;
each way, as unremitting as longing, as pointless as gypsies;
offers the straight fickle stretches, an escape into drudgery;
a glazed topple, returned apropos, to all perpetual tramplers;
Streets of denial thus awash with the footprints of desire;
and shopkeepers selling but their very fancied deprivations;
to clueless emptors who only know to pay with their wishes;
wishes letting roads turn into a curt palliative miscarriage;
If only the dead heart of firm cold asphalt in its stoppage;
could draw from the flaming motility of aching uneasy soles;
whose only succor lies in enduring the heavy flux of void;
of the hushed white sun held captive by a lorn puddle of hope;
Almost to be delivered into the vacuous grave of fruition;
Like a blotted mire breaking through the still cracks of time;
the terminal void of sky, a mute witness, letting it pass by;
perpetual bounds of nascent stories enduring the coma of trial;
As these sulky amiss lines on the otherwise perfected palm;
like keys glued back to the very monolith of body of locks;
coldly tracing all the farce back to the regretful empty gaze;
unlike the ablaze moon's vain lay to a baffled morning star;
Destitute at the corner, his own musing of the wronged dream;
turbulently assaying to coax his vigilance to the drab sleep;
whereof the watchman pokes him up into another bout of doubt;
into his own begging bowl like moss on the sidewalks of being;
Wrinkles on his palms lift themselves up to embrace the eyes;
eyes not for whatever they behold, yet only for the very sake;
that his vision is a silhouette in the horizons of his sight;
shrine to a desirous road and the journey pregnant with fright;
His heart an undying fright, yet a peculiarity for passersby;
a mere postcard of a face, a clown that amuses their hearts;
the face, now become a journey to the next obscure milestone;
inn for hearts which only pulsate and never throb with love;
The battered but firm clogs, only pillow to his dreamy skull;
loyal solace to his tired eyes for they are the only cushion;
ardently guarding his discourteous desire to be a mere nomad;
away runs everything from him, he merrily into his own nothing;
each way, as unremitting as longing, as pointless as gypsies;
offers the straight fickle stretches, an escape into drudgery;
a glazed topple, returned apropos, to all perpetual tramplers;
Streets of denial thus awash with the footprints of desire;
and shopkeepers selling but their very fancied deprivations;
to clueless emptors who only know to pay with their wishes;
wishes letting roads turn into a curt palliative miscarriage;
If only the dead heart of firm cold asphalt in its stoppage;
could draw from the flaming motility of aching uneasy soles;
whose only succor lies in enduring the heavy flux of void;
of the hushed white sun held captive by a lorn puddle of hope;
Almost to be delivered into the vacuous grave of fruition;
Like a blotted mire breaking through the still cracks of time;
the terminal void of sky, a mute witness, letting it pass by;
perpetual bounds of nascent stories enduring the coma of trial;
As these sulky amiss lines on the otherwise perfected palm;
like keys glued back to the very monolith of body of locks;
coldly tracing all the farce back to the regretful empty gaze;
unlike the ablaze moon's vain lay to a baffled morning star;
Destitute at the corner, his own musing of the wronged dream;
turbulently assaying to coax his vigilance to the drab sleep;
whereof the watchman pokes him up into another bout of doubt;
into his own begging bowl like moss on the sidewalks of being;
Wrinkles on his palms lift themselves up to embrace the eyes;
eyes not for whatever they behold, yet only for the very sake;
that his vision is a silhouette in the horizons of his sight;
shrine to a desirous road and the journey pregnant with fright;
His heart an undying fright, yet a peculiarity for passersby;
a mere postcard of a face, a clown that amuses their hearts;
the face, now become a journey to the next obscure milestone;
inn for hearts which only pulsate and never throb with love;
The battered but firm clogs, only pillow to his dreamy skull;
loyal solace to his tired eyes for they are the only cushion;
ardently guarding his discourteous desire to be a mere nomad;
away runs everything from him, he merrily into his own nothing;
ah, and if existence is an infliction, then its cure is surely something mundane.
ReplyDeleteAlso, forgive me my curiosity, bas how long does it take you to write poetry? I'm reading one at a time, trying to understand this art form!:D
Perhaps one day nomads from the land of curses and longing can publish books with flowing words once more. :)
anything/anyone coming as a succour and delivering one from affliction is looked upon as something/someone divine, even if it may be an otherwise unassuming speck of dust, a wretched pauper on the roadside. In my humble understanding, all divinity is not heavenly just as everything earthly is not 'mundane'... forgive me for long sentences, I must have lost the touch coz SMS service is banned in my country...! :)
ReplyDeleteNevermind, you bought it on yourself tho, :D. The ones posted above have been penned over a period of years, sometimes they come to me in a matter of minutes, like a smooth delivery of a child, other times, they keep knocking like a prolonged and painful labour pain, still at others , itz like carrying an unborn child in a womb, coz it doesnt come out tho itz there, unfortunately there are no ceasarean sections in such cases...
I have clarity of hope and strength of belief, that this 'perhaps' will be an inevitable eventuality...!! :)
Ah I know of only 2 or 3 countries that have banned SMS, so I will assume you are from one of them :D, and you have not lost touch, it is much more stimulating to the mind and soul to read flowing sentences, rather than a few letters and words!
ReplyDeletehahaha I admire the way you describe how your art and writings come to you, it shows the true value of them - as precious as children :) They carry your very genes and the future
I plan to read each article slowly, for i fear the steady flow of inspiration will slow :) I look forward to indulging more in your poetry!
Thanks Touta, for informing me that my country is not the only one standing forlorn in this travesty, am glad that ican stretch my arm and feel my hand pressed in solidarity by those of my ilk...and my gratitude once again for your benevolence!
ReplyDeleteIn your own time, you can take eons, or even ignore this mental trash..,! :)
Thanks indeed dear face-off, on a lighter note, I would rather chop my head off, before letting any psychologist to peep inside my trash-bin, haha
anyways, these lines allude to a picture of a lock, whose key right from the bottom of the keyhole is carved from a monolith, so, the visual-structural purpose in creating it must have been fulfilled, but only at the cost of doing away with its functional artistry...!
hope that confuses you further, i love the flowing river of confusion guarded betwixt the banks of clarity! hahaha
Thank you too, be blessed!