Ugochinyere Okoro
Ugookoro@cnenigeria.com
The activity seems deadly: an eruption of a kind,
Plenty of words everywhere, like debris from a crash.
Scattered together, it appears to this artist
That this quiet chaos breeds a life of its own.
And these words don't come emotion laden,
Or they might leave me thought-ravened.
…Unable to take in anything else,
To keep from combusting myself.
Piecing them together invites the task of a goldsmith:
The roughness of his hands and the finesse of a pianist.
Designing, reshaping in sequences as mathematics;
Evoked and celebrated like the village exorcist.
To make sense of it all I should dream of long hands
And grab all that I can like a glutton unfed to Christmas Dinner.
The illusions bombard me in a fashion termed gate crashing:
So inviting yet uninvited: it's all good and confusing.
The 'drumsticks drowned in sauce' appear to stand in their plates,
Suddenly those sparkling grains seem to wiggle in haste.
The hunger for reality stops in its entirety,
Just as you notice your clothes have been on fire for eternity.
Maybe I should wait till it's all calmed down,
When this smoke might have all cleared out.
To be free to put my feelings aright,
And not as strung out as a used guitar.
But it's a rush now, and I know I need to hurry
Or my words would end as ash within a flurry.
And like a lover it's gone away too soon:
Inspiration untamed discontinued.