Deserted,
same as a graveyard,
the silence- neighbourhood
reeks of dead memories,
sunset tells a tale,
a tale so forgotten
in a diction so lost,
emptiness roam the street
man in flesh is missing,
it's like they all vanquish in a fortnight
no blood-body to feast on
famine plight of a mosquito,
a condescending atmosphere,
rise of the frail, amnesia apocalypse
maybe
conscience connived with time,
and in the worst of nights,
perhaps sentenced us to a dying sleep
but we're cuddled up in stasis,
awakened to behold
a time we no longer know of,
no remembrance of
how we came to be, or how it all began.
What happened here?
is this one of my many hallucination?
hallucination is when the
evening breeze lacks oxygen,
a bewildered facial expression
when you witnessed
the summer sun sneeze,
or when ink like mine bleeds
fiery red, a semblance of
sacrificial black blood
maybe it's all in my imagination,
all part of a script
to explaining our lost origin away
the clean slate, and unrelenting gaze
if conscience is up for bargain
maybe we could transcend
a bit down memory lane,
and stick a line through virtual replay
maybe, none of this is real
this reality may be
one of those dream inside a dream
or like a loop with no ending.
Desolate is a place,
name of a town, synonym
for a desecrated county alley,
land of the lost,
out of bounds for the living,
everything present in this picture
is either dead or dead
oh, wait! I'm not in the picture,
so, does that mean I am somewhere alive?
but this story is coursing through me,
maybe I'm dead,
it won't hurt nonetheless
to set up a perimeter,
and maybe some clarity council,
mind is vague,
consciousness is unsure,
ground is a projection of the sky,
cold and dark, blissful purges
like a lily romanced by thorns
that can't be clasped or held unto,
tragedy is a tainted frown,
enigmatic persona
welled up like a sober figure
who's got a story to tell,
a tale of the misty mirage, maybe
winter has come for this reality,
and once again,
we must bend the knee, else go extinct.
Hurt hurts!
hurt hurts simply because it hurts!
wordplay is not enough an expression,
figments
from a long-lost imagination,
so locked away but secure,
not one legendary enough to pick the lock,
no remembrance whatsoever
except that they are but street mirage,
but we claim to understand
what we still can't comprehend,
in search for answers,
so we fabricate loose ends
if only we can put time on sedatives,
perhaps scramble
for that missing piece of the puzzle,
and maybe
tread carefully with those memories
memories that goes two way,
memories about
a place I don't remember visiting,
memories that took form,
against the wills of mind
maybe they aren't mine,
or maybe they're but dying
memories of a place desolate,
and that could probably explain
why I'm not in the picture
............................................
I'm the picture.
Written and edited
By @aduragbemi
Erinkitola A. Aduragbemi
6th September, 2019.