In a circle
At times, I try to cling to acuity But there comes motions through thoughts, Beating the love of adagio out of me, and a calamari, For the obscure things are yet to be enmeshed. Life is a dead metaphor; not ready for a cathartic canvas. I am always seeing birds perching incessantly, On bits of dried grass to make their tattered nests. Everyone writes about grief, Grief too is a cliché that haven’t halt salivating, Like a mucus on the tongues of mothers, As well as children, lovers, birds, counties; everything. Everyone has a blue sky above their heads. Termites never stopped their pinching on sand, Purposely to make a magnificent hill for themselves. Human races helter-skelter after more than you can list, Glasses, bricks and lands to project a house. Isn’t life overused? Everyday, the moon reinstates itself with the sun, To extract another scene to be called a day. Animals reproduces to oblige hungry stomachs, Time fades as that old, slack and wrinkled fabric. Grandma dies, father comes home drunk, Mother cries, We re-paint the same grief everyday. Shedding tears for pains that has catapulted our lives, Hmm… the circular geometry it seizes us to stretch. We bade good-byes, singing dirges too often And had become a body for the dirges too.