PoetrySad Poems

Countdown to Dust

ix)My fingers are stuttering
like thunder abandoned by lightning.

“Joe, I am still not any better.”
“Please Joe, call me when you get this text.”

Between the honesty of the morning
and the chaos of the sun,
I survey my body for traces of happiness,
only to discover that
sadness has dug trenches on my skin.

“Hi, I got your message, why would you even think of taking your own life? I’ve been through worse. Be strong.”

I have spent so much time outside myself,
my body has failed to recognize me
as if I am a book without a title.

“Francis, can we meet tomorrow?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“It’s not about the prayer, and it’s quite urgent.”

I’m humbled to realise that,
I too can decide
not how long I want to live,
but at least
how long I do not want to live.

“Hello, sir, can we meet anytime this week?”
“There’s something important I want to talk about.”
“Sir, it’s urgent.”
“Kindly reply, sir.”
“Hello, sir.”

My tears are too shy, no one sees them except the darkness that lurks in my room.
Depression is a cemetery for the living,
and I have earned a tombstone that will allow me to be enrolled into the league of spirits.
Some motivational liars encouraged me to stay a little longer
in hopes that the Earth might be pouring upon my head the sacrament of patience.
They do not know about the ghost workers in my mind,
constantly reminding me of my home in dust.
I will grant my body rest,
like a miracle converting bread to stones.
By Tuesday, my body would have learnt how to stop breathing
and along with it, how to stop feeling pains.
I wish the doors of Egypt or the windows of Heaven
will swallow me up,
so I don’t have to stain the Earth with this sin called body.

“Madam, do you have pesticides? OK give me one bottle. Sorry give me two bottles.”

I wake up each morning,
with a weightless heart
that has remained committed to pumping blood.

“Ejiro, come and sell Sniper to somebody, two bottles, put them in a nylon.”

Maybe I’m blinded by the illusion of freewill
or I’m desperately in need of rest.
Nothing tastes as sweet as the moments before I was born
or before I was first thought of,
that is where I want to be again and forever.

“I got your messages, but I’m very busy”
“Is it that urgent? Can’t you just text me?”

I find myself returning often
to the dictionary,
to confirm the meaning of happiness
and life.

“Are you there?”

For the rest of this week, or month,
my body will be riddled with curses
and wishes
from strangers, friends, neighbors and blogs
before it will be lowered into home.

“Mummy, do you remember the person that bought two bottles of Sniper here yesterday…?”

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One Comment

  1. You are the best smith I have seen for my generation..
    Your words are always smoothing and heart piercing. Your pen bleeds with passion and reality.. more win to you bro

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