Miseries Poem by Imafidon Mac Henry

Don't preach me sermons
When your palms are
From the flames of hostility
And have been washed
In inculpable pools of blood
Don't teach me the truth
When you lie on lie
Every time the clock ticks

The world smells like
Eggs with sour milk
Spilling into gutters
Of decaying flesh
And solidifying blood
When the eyes know that
Cow horns and feathers
Are for those who turn cowries
Into wraps of agbada
Only for khaki wears
To be laid in tombs
Epitaphed as MASS
And the casualties
To be honoured on the
Dog-eared pages of
Musty memories

With thundering booms
Their boots come upon
Squashed skulls swimming
In the pools of their miseries
Miseries worth a million
Drops of rain splattering
Onto harvest-bound space
Miseries like teardrops
Hanging hollow on
Dried eyelashes
Miseries like pain
Bound by the chains
Of rotten changes.