Untitled poem about lost souls

The metaphor of how a boy learnt to swim in the river of floating wind

Today, my nostrils know the colour of the smell

wafted with the flying flowers of a bomb

to how it bombed our homes 

bled the river of hopes

broke our tongues with hurled silence.

every soul in our home knows the smile of horrors. 

I forever image the bloodstream rattled on our broken peace

yet the poem written on the map of our faces

lights the strumming faces of monsters

dancing on our compound, tarried breathing mystery.

Each sung the nightmare from the balcony of worshippers of guns

down, the soil of my future I whisper to my unborn child;

this home is an institution for pricking studies

and dazzled memoir of the hurled voices

we were left picking the broken ones from the weevils of dust.

one night while tearing out my smile 

Kano, Maiduguri and Niger was blazed to flame

with innocent souls singing on the ears of death

knocking the gate of heaven

and thus; we're told to live in the midst of disasters

and I learnt to cuddle death as if it's an old lover.

Today

I licked the sweat on my body

and soured my tongue. My teeth wags and I spit in

the colour that took butterfly by its neck

and we are deep in tongues on the taste of life.

Mother says thus; I metamorphosed into

A boy learning to swim in the river of the wind.

and to hyperbole this tune

I heared a voice through the dyke of my windowpane.

Listening the strumming beads

we tied with the waist of Kalangu

and to sing the stranded sourness,

by the saxophone we caresses with lips

the dribbling song, floating on the soil of lost melodies.

And I sat by the watchtower of hope

praying the frowning stars might smile again.