By Owosho Abdulbasit
“A home scathed by the enemies
Can rise again,
But the one that crumbles from within
Is dead forever”
That was what the paper
I flipped at Papa’s tomb reads,
This was me after I evolved
Into a merciless monster.
A night rewrote everything,
A minute after the sun bowed out
It was too surreal to be real
From the rough kisses to the tough caresses
The Fists, as I tried to stand against his feast.
He journeyed beyond the furthest,
My ‘mama saids’ wasn’t beating his eardrum
He wandered till the unreachable,
He raged the holy yards
And slaughtered the sacred
Stained sheets,
Tattered textiles
A stigmatized soul
That day, a different me was birthed.
These diaries are for the dead,
These broken windows and doors
Can tell an episode
Of those saddening scenes;
Failures, disappointments
The endless echoes of dad
The bearable bemoans of mum,
As her face display beautiful bruises
Home is no more home
Mother is no more the first school
Father is no gabriel
Scattered hearths
Scathed hearts
my Mary have betrayed her yahweh
I’ll pray no more for my parent’s redemption,
I’ll hold home responsible for my predicament,
Mum and dad for my misfortune.
This could never be a poem
These broken letters,lines
Staggering stanzas, this poor poetry
Mirrors the heart I’m wielding
In the valley between the Everests of my ribs.
These could never be diaries
Nor blank wet sheets
They’re empty souls
That carry stunning stories,
Stories that need not alphabets
To be taled in details
Look beyond these wet sheets
They harbour alphabets that garb eerie emotions,dead feelings
They’re not blank, actually
Only sad souls can see through the veils
To savor them
And save me from the black holes of being unheard.
Copyright© 2020 Owosho Abdulbasit
Undivided Magazine 