SKETCHES

Early, 

Friday morning, 

a lark, holding on to a twig, 

on a tree in the yard, 

was singing my favourite tune.

Sitting up, savouring its nifty, sonorous tune

and reminiscing on my bittersweet memories;

one, two; two lives, a fiasco

but I've known a family to call

when I was asleep in doom.

Darkness was not ever clear,

it was shining

like the face of a god in a shrine

but it still wasn't,

darkness, a well of sorrow.

I lived in an empty city

with only trees that whispered secrets

and sang me bereft symphonies,

bent-backed palms bowing to the neutral wind

like white-robed muslims salaaming at evening prayer.

Lasting teeth marks,

a glimpse of forlorn hopes,

only darkness, with the same old pattern

like snake marks on the sand

leaving a trail.

Devoid of love, fortune

demons stalked me like ferocious lions,

scabs and flaws were all I had to show for,

my past, time and time again

haunted me like an eagle swooping down on its prey.

The sun set on my glory,

in the eleventh hour, it withered

doomed, dejected, desolate

downcast, beyond, at the depth of life's boggy curls,

uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

But the day will break again,

the cock will crow,

the lark will sing;

like a phoenix from its ashes

I rose,

I rose into a shining star, ardent, florescent

strong, iron-jawed, lethal,

fearless, resolute, ineffable.

Fortified by my hardship

I broke darkness's deadly fangs

darkness vanished,

sterling words became my prowess,

love smiled like an unclouded sun—

march on my soul

a spectacle of splendor, immaculate.

Now I'm watching those bittersweet memories

merge imperceptibly into one another 

like the hues of a prism,

I'm not afraid to share the story

I'll just leave the unsaid words buried.

Jọba