Words - By Olumide Gbolahan - I miss you,my friend

 Words


Words in songs wailed at weary sailors,
They grow nimble of limb and leap straight
Then fall like tear drops to be scattered
On a hard place beneath the supple waters.

Or words strung on a metred rhyme
Spun by the bald bard for a fevered king
He takes his handsome sword and falls
From grace to earth.

We have nothing for blood and skin
harvested off our backs and shriveled things
nothing for visions dimmed and hopes unredeemed
nothing . The gentle ascent of indignation collects.
We speak the words
We breed death

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