Night on his bedpost

Sit at paper and stare at the wall with pen tucked safely in your hair,
I want to run away to where I will not be seen, not even by me,
Run from my own skin and out into the winds,
Take on the feel of the air, and the body of earth,
Let the clouds cover me with rain and wash me away from me-
For the flames that lick at sensibilities fill me with peace,
Peace that comes with dreamless sleep, knowing
That all will be well in the morning- not!
And till I wake and blankets roll from my eyes
I keep running in my dreams, running,
Running.

At table and I have my conscience for breakfast,
Watching the blood flow from my fingers as I dip my teeth into its neck-
I enjoy the feel of its death,
Watching its warm blood flow from my fingers-
I have my sorrowed thoughts brewed in my cup,
I down it in one greedy gulp and ask for more-
I enjoy the feel of its death,
Watching its warm blood flow from my fingers.

So sit at paper and stare at the wall with pen tucked safely in your hair,
Where will the mind flee to?
He has run to the ends of the earth and met a curve,
Now he has run back to his paper, pen now in hand, and
Ink flows swiftly as through his skin,
He writes his declaration- "and I should not wake in the morning,
Die for shame tonight."

The paper is fixed on his bedpost and he goes to sleep as he remembers
His breakfast, and he takes his last smile in, the memory washing anew-
I enjoy the feel of its death,
Watching its warm blood flow from my fingers.
And he breathes his last,
With his pen tucked safely in his hair.
Opeyemi (ArTof_Mind)
opeyemijideojo.worpress.com
7
th
July, 2104