The Garden And Everything In It
it may be in May,
by Agunbiade Kehinde
June or July, i can't recall.
i found a garden
where loneliness dwells on the benches in it,
troops of mosquitoes play in puddles,
flowers succumb to the fangs of aridity,
reluctant trees, swaying whither & thither
& calmness hangs on every weak leaf.
i sit in there,
caressing the forlorn flowers, saying to them-
do not die, i am with you.
i think of my dead body in my living soul,
i think of my father who has retired in his frail body too,
mother's usage of paraleipsis to demand a new dress
& melancholy sets in.
i remember father said i am a rich man yet to find his paraphernalia
but here i am with a dead pocket,
why should he leave me wallowing in the pool of paradoxes?
i remember mother said i am a moon that glows and illuminates lightless souls
but here i am,
lost in the orgies of darkness.
when cloudburst begins at night, in the garden,
& i see the dry flowers at noon, dripping from the rain,
a deluge of hope falls on my burning heart
because a message breathes in the sight.