By Komolafe Samuel
This moment, defying gravity and fall.
We would run back in time. Receding all through, through space;
Here huts the dusty road to sculpting the skies best.
With history being the ageless wall we etch our faces into.
We were artisans and we would tribute ourselves in totems of silhouettes.
Myself?
At the white wall where men died to pray the firmament must not fall.
I would stand aloof to awe at my oddness.
I was hewn from a generation of madmen.
I do not try to say I am sane.
Even as fire hopped into horses, I was eye to an era that never seemed to cease.
I know a name sung in the lips of men and it is mine.
I know praises carolled from the glossy lips of tulips, all mine.
So I ran into time and exclusively by meditations.
And of a surety these things would be in time;
Tongues for a people without,
Cold wars like never,
Even the recolonization of a skin.
Now, if in death's grope I fall, lay me down then my bones.
The faith of a myth says dead gods are spirits everywhere.
And though like the rain, I drench the earth and wriggle through.
I shall rise in the sprout of shrubs.
I have dined in the castle of deathless apparitions.
Where laughing princes flustered tables with the vibe of
mirth as wine spilled from the open of jiggling vessels
I have drunk of the elixir of immortality
I have tasted of death's bane.
Perch now my remains in the fluffing innards of history.
I can't die!
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