AM I easy to love when I drop,
into the whispers?
AM I easy to love when i close the blackness and roll
between the shapes of was and is?
AM I easy to love when i choose the easier reflections against the
loud chants of “as The Man”?
AM I easy to love when its more about the open, the opening
and the blindness within?
Tell me, lover.
The young boy who silently witnessed his mothers slaughter-
He sits at the edge of my bed and wails a most dreadful wail.
Their voices pierce through my borrowed peace.
Those lost children hovering, those motherless and fatherless.
They will seek revenge, this they have promised.
And the childless?
I saw the seeds of vengeance sprouting through the heart of one woman-
her infant torched before her eyes.
The father helpless to the greedy and violent lust over his beloved daughter-
He sits in the far corner, muttering the words of Socrates and Soyinka.
They seek me in the spirits of many midnights to open their heavy packages of sorrow-
The horrors their eyes have seen but their heart can never comprehend.
Their belief is that they are the forgotten peoples of a once great but crumbling nation.
Their haunted eyes, I wish I could erase-
But I cannot.