Thursday, 11 May 2017

Rustling Grass

Not even the dreaded woodlands can make me this frigid tonight

Eyes shot, ears raised, heart beating like festive drums

The horrid fear of the known, ached pleasure for the familiar unknown

The certainty of what to come, the mask neatly placed on what I sense

So close I feel the scent of it, yet my hands cannot reach its edges

Through the windows of my mind the truth to me slowly unfolds

With precision sharper than the samurai sword my doubts had me

Will it be the oak tree that will fall? Or the rise of dry lands out to the deep blue?

Queries that circuits my curious mind from dawn to dusk!

Should I take off or simply slide away into the night like an owl?

The voice I hear are close to home, once I danced to these eccentric tunes

Over the horizon something glides towards my shaky steady feet

Transfixed in my perfect confusion and overwhelmed with exhausted hope

Yet, there is still this painful melodious rustling of the grass!

Omo-Ekun, Ilu-Nla

April 12, 2017