We did nothing: A poem
the ground feeds us the song of the spun seasons. The countrywide fire raze through the cocoon of the many voices that we call home. it is there we carry, all the dead, all the harmattan seeds bouying the waves of bird wings fleeing the opera of silence. it is there we roll the mat into the maw of godless yawn, like yam heads, we plant headstones to count the teeth of war. where the footprints of leaf boats sail into sunbeams still reeling from the brightly lit fingers of missiles are, you will find the baby toes of flowers fluttering out of the miserly dirt, eager like any child to play with bullets, roll with tank wheels, dangle from the lip of hellfire. The soil is soft with sin, thick like black flies, the heat curling from its tongue like a pipe smouldering with the ashen remains of many forgotten names. where are our brothers & sisters? for widows in weeds ...