Drop your camera, please take my hand, let’s stare up at the moon, wiggle our toes in the sand, As we float in opioid hazed dreams, woven from memories we both have made.

When we begin to grey, and the light of our best years has started to fade, there will be no photographs in a shoebox, tucked underneath our hospice beds, nor soft lullabies strung from the sweet words we’ve shared.

So many worries, but for another day. So much more heartache, but for another age. When the story that is us, finally nears its last page.

A Christening

Mama, do not speak that name
I stitched in tears,
To the insides of my underwear,
When I was afraid of losing
Who I thought I was.

Lover, do not whisper that name
I’ve heard moaned softly
Between clenched teeth
As I knelt on worn knees
Pretending to like the taste.

Call me who you see.
Call me what you feel.
Name me, so that I may live.

About the Author

Olly Nze is a 23-year-old freelancer and copywriter. He stumbled upon poetry at 16 by reading excerpts of Stan Rice’s poems in Anne Rice’s novels. From there a yearlong love affair with Blake, Keats, Eluard, and Soyinka ensued. He tries to distill his thoughts, at times softly and at times starkly, through poetry. 

We're legion

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