Mama used to tell me how concrete I am
I felt the irony in her words because like a
Lazy bird in winter, I’m only broken at the touch
Of anything wet, burning and moulded back
Into full ice, only to be melted again
when it seems the world has got nothing in
store for a boy leaving his twenties but tears
and memories of how concrete he used to be.
I am only but a child that’s learnt to hunt the day
the demon and wizard of what it means to flow
into people’s heart and sail away their pains while
his remains to patch the walls of his broken heart
and perhaps mould bricks on his pains and for
himself builds a castle surrounded with yellow flowers
flowers of what life made him out of its stuck of tears.
A lot of water has flown from these eyes and
a lot of its kind has gone under the bridge, he
is crossing this bridge and the waters are crossing
with him, acknowledging his pains and strength
in echoes walking him into his fortunes.
For until we learn how liquid we are,
We’d never know how solid we’ve been to stand pains.