Saturday, 20 October 2018

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HOW WE SPELL HOME

There’s a heap of charcoaling lyrics at the fireplace.
My father said it is the remains of a burning song,
The one that caught fire in a boy’s mouth,
When he stood on the assembly ground
And sang our national anthem.

Mother sits by the fire and counts the smoke
Till her eyes become two rivers ( Benue and Niger),
Where death rows his boat with a grin and a gun
From which a blood stained bullet dangles.

Father’s shriek slices the thick darkness
And mum whispers, “child don’t come here,
The way they spell ‘hell’ is the way we spell ‘home’
Four letters each- bombs, bullets, swords and fire.”

4 comments:

  1. Girl, you amaze me with every line of your poem. This poem almost made me cry

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  2. Very good points you wrote here..Great stuff...I think you've made some truly interesting points.Keep up the good work. real spells

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