Images. Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

Hold my hand!
Forget my tears.
Let me show you papa's grave,
he was a hero with a basket mouth.
He tinted our future with his wagging Lips,
his eyes, a staccato of his old self.
Stop romancing your fear and live in me,
we once asked him of bread but stone,
he gave to us breaking the natural law.
He beat mama and lynched her shadow.
Do not remember of yesterday he went with,
remember our tomorrow in our hands,
for we know not which cook whether the
fire or the pot on the firewood...
Do you know he impregnated Chioma?
Do you know he killed Kambili for money?
Do you know you have been sold off into slavery?
You don't belong here any more! You don't!
Our Images stocked in his eyes as he went,
Spirited rushes of unknown deity beckon,
my soul has grown deeper like rivers of Jordan.
I ask mother where broken dreams go,
she pointed at papa's grave yard with tears.
This is Papa's grave and his dreams looting,
The carbon copy of our Images...
The photocopy of our honesty went with him.
This is Papa, a warriorwith a basket mouth.
You speak of me as a river Nile
You can tell the moon and the stars
when you understand their conjunction.
Brother, we have no future with these images,
observe my fate and faith dreadfully,
we belong not together any more.
Papa separated the images of our blood,
for stubborn ignorance existed with him.
Even though we don't understand ourselves anymore,
For the sake of this insanity rolling in.
We were made to strife and grieved...

When this tinsel is broken apart,
maybe, we can share the meatless meal again,
not his brutality and rigid zealousness.

©John Chizoba Vincent
Cam'god