The past is a corpse
Double bottoms-oozing stems
Troubling calls of tormenting pause,
Like stitched layers of an aborted cocoyam.
The grave is behind every soul
Scribbling epitaphs on our minds-
We can't tell where stand our poles
We can't sort the distance of our minds.
They buried strangers in one pit
Shy strangers of their own identity-
Soaking their screams in one sheet
Strangers lost in mental pity.
My mind has conquered my doubts
Everyday, I converse with my spirit,
For today, my hope still tread through this farm-
Awaiting the naming ceremony of the yam barn.
©Copyright:- Moses Chibueze Opara aka Mr. Humility
(A Nigerian poet and poetry analyst)