Maclawrence Famuyiwa Poet Free verse

Written For Posterity

Perchance blank sheets had choice,
they’d refuse the stain of ink.
Yet ink delights in spoiling emptiness,
like palm-oil staining white cloth.

That defiance—
to create and keep records,
to write poems for posterity—
perhaps, or perhaps not,
like smoke beneath a cover,
escaping what time cannot cage.

Sometimes poems sing into thin air,
with no eardrum to soothe.
Other times they endure the test of time,
speaking as soliloquy to the unborn,
through wisdom and well-chosen words—
like echoes billowing through valleys.

Few then recall the ink
that shaped such classics,
long dried and discarded,
like footprints blurred by rain.
It is the paper that blows the kisses,
absorbs the tears,
and wears the credits given.

So paper may delight,
while ink grows dispirited.
For obscurity never veils real visions—
a passing cloud misguides the senses
from knowing who holds true honour.

So paper may rejoice,
and ink fall into silence.
Yet vision does not drown in shadows—
like sunlight veiled by dust,
truth will still gleam through,
to honour ink that turns blankness to beauty.

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