And here, at the crossroads,
hesitation lingers like
the pounding voices of migraine.
My head ― an anvil of hooves,
stammers in scattered dialects like
this melancholic mumbling of water-bodies.
On my spine is a hulk ―
a sulking sketch of paranoia
with hands that tilt me sideways
like a gnomon at the mercy of Zephyrs.
Is Redemption in the dive? At the plunge,
Froths become bubbles; bodies are flotsams
Of solid sap — stretched like the forlorn
countenance of the Horizon.
And here, at this altar of decision,
where reasons run without refrain
like enjambed lines; the plunge is
the washing of the sin.
Bamidele Aiyejina renders art with pen and a mouse. He loves dark-art pop , which reflects in his writings — inkings of dark themes, rarely jovial. When he’s not writing, he’s either designing for brands or daydreaming about hitting a billion dollars before 26.