i worship the day because it survived the night
– romeo oriogun
this night is having a rhythm of its own & i am here, seated in a scream. the type that rips the
night of its splendor. a prayer will leave my mouth soon, but this storm may not receive calm ̶
what if i decide to carry my broken body and run like waves crashing into pebbles, would my
body suddenly become a sanctuary for
golden tulips? & the impossible knots that gnaw at my throat like whiskey-ed merlot, would they
become epiphany?
& if i wake up in the next morning, would there be “ifs” to chase around in my serrated body?
for every time rejections are thrown at my body like a lost bargain, do i repeal into my soaked
sores
& pretend i am a temple that should be worshipped in loud silence? // a body seeks a firm grasp
at tangible hope — one it can sink in and become a new dimension of holy grail.
but somehow, this environment wears a sealskin — presents milk in poisoned chalices— makes
me wonder if to choose life is to choose your mental health slowly crippling into a monologue of
“death is a deliverance”
there are days, i watch fireflies become knights on my skin as i become a cluster of songs
screaming for freedom
even as crystallized dreams become wisps of hope dashing into thin air
so, we have established that my country is a hell-hole.
can i then say having a merriment at the funeral ceremony of my valid dreams is an unconscious
trek to reality?
can i stifle the songs that try to resonate hope within me?
can my black body be hidden away from faux- light, forever?
below are some solutions that fuck with my head:
sometimes, the only way to shut out thorns that ridicule your skin is to be divine; twist your body
into an armor. shield yourself from oblong rays of scorchers. the only way may be that you tear
off the scales and own your body. insert vulnerability somewhere
you must take the shape of a running brook & dissolve everything that appears to make you a
slave in a regimented caste system
you must digest that your life matters & not just because a group of people are just realising
– you must guide your body to become a belvedere, you owe yourself that
then, survival becomes a new song.
Timothy Ojo is a “Best of the Net 2020” Nominee, Pushcart nominee. He has his works in IceFloe Press, Perhappened, Kalahari Review, the winnow mag and some others. He was longlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize in 2018. He is an editor with Knights Mind Library, Michigan, USA. He strongly feels blue skies are underrated.
