Boys don’t cry, only leak.
the abs & chest are wide enough
to hold a torrent after every lynch.
When you see a boy cry, grief has just pinched his soul.

This is a sour song of dark rhythm–
Its lyric is aligned with bitterness, & aches, they bite the beautiful ears that take them. I try to hawk my anguish, but my tongue is burnt with oil of voiceless sounds.
I am weary with my groaning.
My Soul sore, vexedly.

This is a sour song of dark rhythm–
Posthumous child!– my existence label–
scrubbed off my face, yet, reigns inside;
time & time after time, as period, I leak
like a sieve. Hope only flickers in & out, like a fire– lit to the face of a dancing wind.

This is a sour song of dark rhythm–
and my heart is melting away into the soil, memories of laughter rusts like metals, father, too, is disintegrating into fine dust, tommorow, as void as today & any other, no news but olds of good days.
I can say: these days are the best, for no single joy they bring.

This is a sour song of dark rhythm–
I’ve eaten boiling balls of beautiful bad luck– a million of them. Today!
I’m drumming the nunc dimittis to myself & to every shell of joy, falling off me,
& all of the scar, engraving solid rocks of pain, upon the cliff of my soul.

Let this soul a moment of solace, dear grief! just a break: to pour my alabaster of plight, at the feet of the divine deity!
just a moment of solace, dear grief!

Psalmuel Benjamin Oluwasheun is a young Christian poet, short stories writer, dramatist, artist and inspiring lawyer from Nigeria. He is a round writer with the fear of God. If he is not doing the above mentioned exercises, he’ll be praying.

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