Your fear cannot coerce my feathers into a nib to tell your talcum tales;
for no matter how you try,
I would write in the language Phoenixes are reborn
Some truths are written in blood to make the heart remember it bled and bleeped for freedom
My skin was cremated and scattered in the air by pain,
for you to inhale my fears like cocaine,
and be intoxicated by the life I never lived.
Life; a lesser version of death garnished by Breath.
I was there when the River challenged the Sun to a drinking match;
I was also there when the river died of taste…
Sultry Silence loud like sirens stocked in my soul
like sounds cocooned by violent senescence.
One little boy by the shore, lifeless, spewed by the sea.
One big Vulture waiting for one little child to suddenly expire,
shot by the same lens that showed how senseless we became.
One little boy with a gun; many little boys that were gone, slain by the same society who sold them to sordid spaces where no sun shine.
And All these little children live in me, Mute, like an ember dying in the Sun
About the Author
Hillary Uzomba is an artist living and working in Nigeria, a poetic painter whose works explore the relationship between self and space. He seeks to balance the duality between literature, music and art using different varieties of medium especially lines to tell everyday stories. He loves writing, reading and illustration.
you can follow him ;
email- firstname.lastname@example.org,twitter-@hillaryoux .