Immigration
I once scout for fresh forages
out of my mother’s shoes
over the coast, on the other side
I wish, hoped, and heard of praises
Only in my heads, not in my eyes
They are special specs, taller than normal
High as palms, greener than sour lemon
Melodies on my drunken ears, whispers on my naïve mind
Didn’t ask for a proof, before I fell
So I sold my mother’s shoes, my legitimacy
My freedom, my fit, no longer mine
Because I had rum for stories, I wanted all of it
And spent all on it
Smiling to the mirage, crying to the mirage
Cus I had bought an oversized shoe
I may never fit, I never heard
Copyright © Victor Nwakanma | Year Posted 2021
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