SERMONS OF THE DEAD
Darkness has eaten up light
And no one dares to flare its ambiance.
The sun has gone on a sabbatical
No wayfarer knows its destination.
Chained to the debacle
Of modernism are our morals
No one can find a sledge.
Today, I roost in this aged shrine
Where hallelujah incantations reign
And hear the silent cry’s of my ancestors.
Of how little devils
Chant holy tongues
In the cathedral of acclaimed trinities.
Of how the hormonal bliss
Betwixt the belt of juveniles
Are sought by aged smelly gutters.
Of how perfectly made beauts
Turn themselves to peacocks
Treading on octopus legs.
Of how desperate flies
Offer sacrifices to the gods of their heart
By pouring sand into the broth of allies.
Of how erotic fondness
Has swallowed benumbed agape
Mocking its eminence as it prostrate fall.
Of how this cosmos
Has become an abattoir
Where dreams are butchered to be sold.
Does the swaying dust reject
The mix of the elders saliva and gin
Spat on its head?
Does the brawny iroko
Go to slumber
At the passage of the wind?
Ay! The tradition that was,may be your nay
Yet you must twine with the truth
Lest stones will sing dirges at your tomb.
BY: AJISE VINCENT