Sunday Wura Best
A Brother's Mare
silent men are matching with gloomy eyes
unto these walls with a decade oil paint…
with these lamps of swerving lights
Kojo, I now see that wind is the potency of sleep.
Is not the soil scrubbed by clapping beads?
Are there leaves of fresh vinegars in a forlorn garden?
but your eyes, they are reflections of warring lights;
your sweat is the emission of blood from a dried log.
these men, this night.
who have outran the massage of maggots;
are creeping behind the shadows of a hostile scorch
to your bedstead. From the mixed tones of the market.
this night, these tiny feathers drown in your Silence
as you warble your dirge through amphibian notes
this night, these footsteps dabble in grey muds,
as they approach your neon-emanating stone
your stone, Kojo, is stilled, unrolled.
what speckled script, what passage in slick muds?
what sticky sweats float your bones on stealth waters –
leaving you bereft, at the feet of your bones?
i speak with a salty lip, a tears-infected tongue,
anxious to lie at the depth of these shattered bones
& travel six miles, down to that interim coast,
where, together, we’ll await the epilogue of this script.
i must confess, my tears are not holy –
they are streamlets of hostile memories
writhing from past springs.
my eye is a diota of destitute drips,
my vision is weaved with plies of mares;
the shutting of my eyes is the screeching of screens.
tears are honey drips from the lacrimal
but mine are rivulets of broken bones;
the flow of past scores foaming into blood,
they flow through my pale chicks
leaving carpets of crystal keloid
they drop on my palms like drips of ice;
splattering abroad into silhouettes of patched memories
stringed from the numerous stings of the past.
rolling anti climaxed like sewages down a tunnel,
it finds it route onto the bands of my lips
salts my tongue with tart savours
and I spit it into the palms of the wind
far away from human reach.
i marvel at those whose tears melt like colas of ice
for mine is a streamlet of broken mirrors
& every attempt at pacing therein
leaves me with broken visions.
I was stitched with the strings of lust,
I was patched with hostile bandages.
Weaved with plies of earthen quest
Forced with sticky fluids from blood to bones.
Fetched from the depth of a mirage;
Horrified, by the fluid she fetched, she
Left me to the fate of a fierce tide
But who, truly, did I offend?
I sank deep into the ocean
Swam in the routes of giant fines
Hunted by the hunger of whales
But I survived. And hung on
Till by scales weighed rocks
Strong enough to withstand a scorching sun.
Then I left the banks for the shore
And tracked her paths through snore.
… With teeth honed for revenge
And scales grown for defense…
A breathing statue bathed with red earth
A swollen eye, unguarded girth
Were all I saw,
the world of man has changed.
Children of the Night is an exploration of Man's vulnerability in the wrought of Earth, and the author's dirges at different milestones. As part of my upcoming chapbook, these poems unapologetically portray the question of why Earth births to devour, later on.
Sunday Wura Best: “I am a writer from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. I am the author of Days In Quarantine (Smashwords Inc. 2021), and an upcoming Chapbook. When I am not writing, I love computer graphics and music. You can reach me on Instagram and twitter via @wurabests.”