the people with the issue of blood
there is something that comes and goes
with the calming quiet of the walk from daylight
for a man who the dark gives credo to for sanity.
we were wounded
and kept within breastpockets like a leap-year calendar,
too scarred to breathe air.
for for every breathing thing, there is an inanimate version
and when I check my cards,
for earth is a red sun.
a tinge of blood and a graceful terror molded within ventricles and atriums.
my body is contemplative on how to sing each day,
because there isn't one day that my voice echoes through the walls
that I do not die softly, gently bending the soft mud of God.
when I no longer saw people as people and just as bodies,
something tells me the intent of life is death and reincarnation
& then a nuder death.
wickets of comfort
will invite Heisenberg's uncertainty,
warped about you like a towel.
but our senses can fail to tell us
that fullness of uncertainty is paralysis.
and when our senses get their revival in the cathedral,
we use it too fool men,
inexperienced and submissive to their own bottom.
again, our senses fail to tell us
everyone we fooled & hurt is a dust of pain added to our make-up.
today we cry out to our bleeding bodies,
embalmed within ourselves
to cull death
and I still tell you that the intent of life is death and reincarnation & a nuder death.
there is something that comes and goes
with the calming quiet of the walk from daylight
for a man who the dark gives credo to for sanity.
we were wounded
and kept within breastpockets like a leap-year calendar,
too scarred to breathe air.
for for every breathing thing, there is an inanimate version
and when I check my cards,
for earth is a red sun.
a tinge of blood and a graceful terror molded within ventricles and atriums.
my body is contemplative on how to sing each day,
because there isn't one day that my voice echoes through the walls
that I do not die softly, gently bending the soft mud of God.
when I no longer saw people as people and just as bodies,
something tells me the intent of life is death and reincarnation
& then a nuder death.
wickets of comfort
will invite Heisenberg's uncertainty,
warped about you like a towel.
but our senses can fail to tell us
that fullness of uncertainty is paralysis.
and when our senses get their revival in the cathedral,
we use it too fool men,
inexperienced and submissive to their own bottom.
again, our senses fail to tell us
everyone we fooled & hurt is a dust of pain added to our make-up.
today we cry out to our bleeding bodies,
embalmed within ourselves
to cull death
and I still tell you that the intent of life is death and reincarnation & a nuder death.
Olúwádáre Pópóọla is a poet or so he thinks, a student of Microbiology and a Sports Writer for a media company. He writes from the famous city under the rocks. The best of his names given by his grandfather, he is learning how images are made from words.