In this house are nameless shadows avowed by their unused existence. A house with an open-
mouthed door wheezed into by the bellows of time. The curtain is a borderline gloom for the
blue moon. The plates, the coolers and big pots are nothing but grieving of the lights. There are
meanings so significant that we are nothing but objects in the space of their imaginations.
Darwish says in every object, there is a being in pain— a memory of fingers, of smell, an image.
An antique dresser in an abandoned building. Like a door ridden with bullet holes. Like a rag
doll lost in the woods. The goodbye of a frail mother, or the sea seeking through the flotsam of
clothes and bodies of an european shore. People say I wear body grey. People say I wear my
body upside-down, and it does not look much like me anymore. I grieve with what divulge me
and if this is a window-pane for sightseeing. I wonder the last object I will ever smell before my
body wrestle me. I found my self in a place where stars cleaved and in this body is a house of
nameless shadows avowed by their unused existence.

Daniel Ajayi is a Nigerian poet and Writer. Daniel probes truth, nature and humanity. He reviews for The Blue Nib and writes from his courtyard in Lagos. He can be seen via Twitter @_Daniel_Ajayi.

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