there is no colour for pain
| call it blue | a dark boy floats like a feather, he shrouds himself in love and glee — you never know |
| call it red | a boy’s pain is limpid. it burns like coal it emits a voice, I’m a house on fire & I wanna keep burning |
| call it white | a country boy is displaced; nomad, but there is no home outside his warring country |
| black | boy is the night. you say his body is full of sin & he reeks of heavy liquor |
| yellow | a happy boy rots away, you hold him when he’s gone, you do not know departure, you don’t |
| grey | & a boy baptized in a boat of pain shares love; last supper: this is my blood, drink. |
| again, call it black | boy sits on a knoll, says the end has began |
| we call pain purple | but we don’t wear a worthy blood & we look like minarets shooting prayers to heaven never reaching |
| a pluming corn wilts | |
| — weaves a drowning dance | boy’s a stick of corn |
| & when he loves himself, | there are no many features to matter. |
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Poem © Akinwale Peace Akindayo
Image by vishnu vijayan from Pixabay (modified)
I love it… C’mon keep it up😍✌️
Good