(Poem) How To Die Before Death (1) | By Alamu Quadri Abayomi | @aquadriabayomi - Olu Jameson Media

(Poem) How To Die Before Death (1) | By Alamu Quadri Abayomi | @aquadriabayomi

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A boy saw how the dawn broke in his father's room was colourized with grey inferno
By the sun which rose across the sleepwalking sky with blind light

Imitating the darkness twirling around the loose clouds of yesternight
He woke early to view the landscape of his fluctuating trance

Only to suddenly run back home chasing after his train of thoughts with an exhausted spirit

He scanned through the cracked walls of his father's faltered dreams
Battered and bruised by cruelty of past strifes

To see his mother huddled up beside her own grumbling shadow
Like a lonesome hummingbird chanting song of frustration with a starving voice

Blaring through her furious belly with engulfing lyrics of wet songs
Leaving the hairy lips of her fragile eyes in torrential flows

His gloomy gaze met with her jittery silhouette gliding into deep coma
Bearing the melancholic depth of debts
Piling on her face with pale debris of slow death

His mother's face is like a cemetery burying infernal smiles
Even when the sparkling flames are hidden inside the armpit of unending frowns

Mother said!

Son don't wait for the sun to set in my face to reveal the ashes of my burnt tears
To our nosy neighbours whose tongues are calibrated with gossips and mockery

Don't let them drag you like they did your father's image into another body carrying abstract dreams
Like motionless portrait of hopelessness
Hanging on broken walls carrying vessels containing alcoholic drinks

For he is now like a dead sun fighting for survival to reach elusive bright dawn
Whose dull face was gripped by shackles of endless darkness

This is how the boy was compelled to a black kaftan weaved by destiny for orphans
Since his father is a living ghost in penury
His mother lay still in open grave of depression
His sister roam wilderness of lust to pluck thorns of gloom
In the midst of trees growing with stumps of remorse
Their home is now city of things carrying emblems of lifelessness
Like hope, fortunes and ambitions

This is how they frequently host death pouring their draining breath
Into jars of sorrows and pains to quench its thirst.




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