I imagined a friend’s face as wide as the
sky winking into a distance forming nothing.
at times silence is opened like a bucket craving raindrops
so the sun seduced the edges of my silence through
the window blind & I imagined the missing loved ones
finding a befitting room there to lodge their grief & poems.
loss is the metaphor of all things divided into miseries:
a part behind our head threading threnodies like weavings,
a part echoing our names between grasses of a battlefield
without a body to answer them but an epitaph of bodies,
the other part is this poem having bruises of a wrecked night
flowing from a boy’s head like the rush of sensation that
follows a bullet into the chest of orphaned dawns.
half a yearly rain is an overflowing dirge & loss. I
mean if rain falls eight times, formed elegies rain four times.
& tomorrow, you’ll open your palms like a believer
& dots of dew will tint it with confusion & breakfast:
you won’t know if it is the colour your imagination transformed into,
you won’t know if it is the sweat of a
city staying too much beside fire of its absence, or
your mother’s body weeping of no vengeance
or tired of housing a river in her body somewhere in
the cloud where wounds are surplus.
like death, what goes down goes up too to form rain.

Mesioye Johnson is a writer who loves the darkness of the world, hence, the gift of art he gives.

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