Some Poem by Adeosun Olamide

And some, nothing is poetic,
Their lives- nothing flows,
Their souls- nothing is profound,
Their bodies-clumsy

They tell, I know-
Soundless, in their perdition, of paradise
Lies, of such,
In their bare, of robes, rags
Rainbow robes, silky, flowing-
So nicely they tell-
In their cold, of warmth
Of rags their bodies haven't held
Of robes they will not or perhaps hold,
Of love, of pain, they are deadened to

Some, none knows, nothing true,
And one time after telling
-Of purity, virtue, chastity…
Preachers, soundless-comes in the brothel,
Disconnected already from the cloak,
Attracted to a kid, then wanders back into the haze,
Souls they have not, theirs, a poet,
Telling of vanity with embers a headstone consciousness
Some, none knows, nothing true,
I looked, mist letting me, they have none,
The some with no soul,
I wandered their emptiness,
Searching for the spring that echoes their tel-lings
I found, the some- they fear sojourn
-To near the tides,
Yet tell- of known storms, unseen in,
Storms within- that wrecks a ship,
Storms yonder, in the air… that gulps an ocean,
They tell of the gods at work…
They are not seers but poets
Whose- scrolls are torn, lamps worn
I crept still, around-
If they know the hills they tell of,
Or hills from valleys
How they know the colors, save the darkness
I saw they know not, the scent a rose has
Or the color in its seeds, but can tell,
Telling in that darkness of theirs
Darkness they haven't seen,
About stars, disconsolate lights there,
How?
How they do- I know,
I reached, the depth of their bottomless
Where victors, warriors, wars were made
Though the sight of blood dreads them
-Shall tell, that remember
Before their disease swallows,

Their lives, nothing flows,
The some seen- have no dreams,
Just empty sleeps,
They die each night and never a morning for them,
All they have truly are webs
Webs sprawled over their bodies,
Empty bottles, rusty rails, unshaven hairs,
A madness,
All they truly, the poet… poets like…is a madness
It is what they desire which when still, they turn dead

Silence to them is luxury
And the cloak of madness they seek,
Wanting the silence, a luxury
A luxury only madness affords them
And them, is this poetic?