OUT OF BOUND:[For people living out of revelation]
This world is coming to an end, soon;
Just watch how it will cloud your
eyes into a dirge - song —
& how it could fall on your chest
like a wall broken for autumn.
you will feel not your body again,
You will run into houses of no windows,
& all you could find is a symbol of darkness,
Speaking to you in a white language —
But beware, you cannot understand the white language;
When your brain is off from your head.
Eyes would be opened wider,
than the socket of a god.
You will be taught how to wear pain
& drink your sisterhood blood too,
Everything would become too busy to control,
Because this is not the normal sense of life.
Look, that day, a man will taste your body,
If you resist to poison your eyes
like twin shadows —
Or shades of destruction;
Blades blasted on your funeral.
Your poem would become too wet to read again,
Your home would carry the body of a lion,
When thousand of legs clash
with another blockbuster;
After painting your emotions with an unknown ink.
My pastor said, that time;
fire would stand like a body,
Burning everybody's favorite things
like nobody ever existed,
But it won't burn some body,
Not for refuge to stretch through
But to give an example of some — living darkness,
Spreading their legs across the world's chest.
So listen, when your body tells you to admit today's worries
& behind the picture of a stolen flower
Made from fire & dirty souls of darkness
Because soon, this world would be out of bound
For little boys & girls to crawl into.
Inside our home are running birds
Calling themselves names inform of imageries.
But we were diverted by the sound of the gun
Split into crimson of national park service
Where nothing was leading us home
Like the beat in our hearts sounding raindrops.
We have many seasons to deliver from:
— Season where water carries your eyes
Into the storm of a beautiful ghost town.
— Season where your hands are tools to
Wake a boy from his father's clothe.
— Season where you lay your body on a role
Of fine ashes spreading in dark rooms.
— Season where your emotions cut into
Pieces of memories & fluid of beers.
— Season where nothing comes out like laughter
but walking loneliness of fearful papers.
At a time, something may cause you pains
That could lead your eyes into a blind woman's.
But don't be afraid, your body is different from the wind
Only when you find yourself a better road to cry
Because, some roads are faces with deep eyes;
They don't listen to cracky bottles of songs,
When their bodies can't hold a wait of liquor.
In our stores, we have different boys dangling
On air conditioners to hold life in small amount,
Forgetting that the condition of life is not in
Any amount you can buy with small hold.
Look into the arms of these words;
Something is missing inbetween the body,
Because they have not fall on you these days.
Don't doubt your mind by running for morrow's race;
Without a coma after fooling your name in the lubricant of death.
This home is for boys falling into prayers
Because they are sands of the museum
Decorated for liter tips of sun smiles.
We are walking with another home again,
Call us back after the lose of our legs
That we are not ready to die twice
Like the spit of my father
Which runs into wrong directions.
I was told when we count our houses
With the last debt sigh, we became stone statues breathing like dead gods
With sun shades & sorry laughter.
How do we break home into shards?
Or paint the rooms into colours of silence?
I don't think home lives in waters of love,
It lives in silent papers & appealing voices
Where shadows are empty reflection
Copying the body in another boy's eyes.
There's a way we should dig our problems,
After becoming too weak to cry in pains:
— we let our smiles crown our efforts
— We share more lights to seeing things
— We calculate the picture of porn poems
— We voice out tragedy in a broken rhythm
Like we call god's name into holy books.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADENIRAN JOSEPH, also known as Prince Joe, is a poet, writer and a critic. His works has appeared in different blogs, sites and anthologies.
He writes from the depth of a dying ocean to paint the colour of everything he sees like the world is that too beautiful to behold. He lives and writes from Ibadan.
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