We delight in the char of the sun,
the moon eats nothing but water.
We are satisfied with the hunger of the desert,
the way bones grab the sky like laughter.
It is not funny though when the sea licks
the wound of the shore or when the palm tree
tries to paint a new cloud into the forlorn sky.
You must understand the redundance of our works,
how the tyres cycle but never tell the time
& how the clock rotates but takes us nowhere.
I swear the earth is tired of planting gravestones
but we do not stop to poke our bodies searching
for survival, trying to evolve into something.
We encourage the young ones to be violent
in their hunger & now that they suck the nectar
of Dionysius' hideous thighs, headless, the weeping
in the chest of the clouds, we call them forfeit.
The taxi will take us home drunk or not &
in the tomb of our sleep, we will fight all
the battles we escaped while awake. amin.
Yours always,
Osahon (warpedpoetic)