It started with a rush. The flames
swept onto the tables of something poetic
It didn’t burn and for awhile only ripened
in a warm preservation unit.
It is how response is altered and how
confidence is crumbled. Only sometimes
wiped by brows of an extremely smooth face.
It moulds anticipation. Find it.
Look into the soil and marvel at how stories die.
How they dwindle with a crush
as if fighting for life to be heard.
There are ways to appreciate the fruits of an
inhabiting arrow as a kiss, twirled in a furtive bow
and pulled backwards to resolve
only to be left to wander ahead in search of purpose.
We should remember
That there are pleasures you took from your
indulging gaze, evenly massaging bridled lips to speak
And they came in dozens, didn’t they?
You should have learnt
You were born into chaos as a seed
With the only respite of silence emerging to trick you
and you sank in melancholy and fear
Remember that inside you I found somewhere to steep in silence
when I understood the difference between loving and living
That when you matured, chaos would externalize in extermination
while trenching in a gulley you learnt to decorate.
You were expectant with joy but you’ve forgotten
That life is also measured by how we fight
What remains now is the corpse of your betrayal
and it has been weathered by a calamity of chance.
The vultures proportionally metaphored in men
are unyielding, pitiful and savagery paralled to brilliant and charmful
And they’ll come after you in such poses
As humble, poetic, bastards, sinners and as Christs.
But Jeez! Your voice was once sweet,
reprimanding and tangible.
The only topography you knew, the only prints
that helped you touch was something likened to a map.
Your palm, texture, the ambivalent talent
and a brush light on the tip of your nose.
It wasn’t your hairstyle.
It seems I understood what it wasn’t:
To love and be loved
To crave a kiss and to kiss
To make love in fire
To build from destruction.
Your propensity in an acquired distaste for tolerance fooled you
Your hands no longer have the magic
of something forbidden that made me stop taking my sacraments.
It is now unadorned, wasted after cold fractured my hands.
When all else is taken from you
That you don’t really matter, mostly your importance
is some seminal force that accrues or dwindles over time.
Only you’ll realize that it’s too late to mend the hem of the horizon.
Something that slips and breaks further away from you each passing second.
Learn that, they’ll say it’s too much: but
plant your flower in the sea, vases are not
streamlined into what we see but what we refuse to admit.
Once again: I’ll taste the gush of your mocking laughter
in the blur of your preconceived state of my weakness
But I’ll whisper on my bedrock and blow a kiss across the sea
And if it will make an island, someday
We’ll find ourselves on it and share our glory.
© Eddy Ongili 2015
Photo credit: Jaime Hernandez