—For What Could Not Die—
They say true love outlives the reach of death;
then why make war when we must say goodbye?
If wrath can keep thy shadow warm with breath,
why forge another bond before we die?
Thou lift thine eyes into the vacant blue,
as though some hidden dweller waits for you;
and sleep withdraws when evening seals the night,
as if one absent face withholds the light.
I ask the men who trade in roads and bread;
they name each street, yet cannot name thy trace.
The world wakes on; I hear its iron tread,
yet every road goes empty in thy place.
That primal word—Be—called the dark to flame;
thou mayst unmake my world, not what became.
What haunted me the most, was the myth of clean.
Soap with its pale arrogance, its perfume of forgiveness.
Water pretending to be neutral, pretending it could rinse a history.
As if purity were mechanical.
As if turning a handle could unmake a person.
As if the stain were not the self.
A dictionary of tragedies, My next step deeper in vain than my last.
Whats the point of running, if I run in a circle back to my past.
Every new path I take, a new mistake I cant unmake,
A demon in all past lives, so now I burn myself at your stake.
I'll stop breathing, because you said you loved the colour blue,
I paint on and on until my fingers fall apart, but the red blood still shows through.
Happiness doesn't repel me, I suffer to hunt it away,
Without pain who am I? In the burning fire I find my way.
My agony is art that I'd rather die than stop making,
Ill patch myself up, but not so much that id stop breaking.
I walk into a storm, board a boat already drowning
I rip the open the stitches, Trying to salvage the sting.
Beauty doesn't come from within, it stems from my veins torn,
Scarlet, wine, maroon, in blood my prophecy scorned
My admirable Anuoluwapo
I shut my eyes to feel the dawn,
Where dark forest ends and night is done,
And along those lines, a consistent perspective:
Waking up to see the sunrise, Anu at your side.
No longer longing from afar,
But with my shining, morning star.
I see our home, a quiet space
Touched by a soft and soothing grace
Only your sweet smile can bring
It makes my winter feel like spring.
As the coffee drips soft and slow,
Watching your quiet beauty grow.
I dream of the trips we shall make,
Of promises we’ll finally make,
To be on the same journey, step by step,
There’s nothing now to hide for me.
To have you laugh, to share your hand,
To build our life on the sand.
Anu my love, fate that is written,
I’ll live in hope, and wait not long,
In every day until then,
You're my wife in every sense of the word.
Till stars loose heaven, and god again unmake:
You hold the key to my heart.
Copywright@Bamgboye Stephen 2026
Is invading a self govorning country an act
Of war.? Its a rhetorical question.' Because
The answer is yes.) Simple as..' sometimes
There are appeasers, and obviously corruption.' And weak willed pleasers.' Its a
Deceptive world.' Moreso in some parts.' All hype and mis- direction puts great sadness in the heart, there is a war on information on human populations this is
Most wrong, if you are a milatary leader
If captured you are a prisoner, yet what of
War.? Waged under which you were taken
From does it unmake military protocol how
Can it otherwise be.? If what ain't what it was.? How can sound judging be attained
It seems so straightforward to me.'
I thought their smile a summer thing—
A warmth without a seam,
But frost will echo summer’s trust
When ends unmake the dream.
They bent as if a willow bends—
Compassion in its guise,
Yet paper leaves dissolve to ash
When winter tests their lies.
A friendship held in hollow hands
Will scatter like the dew,
For truth is not in what they claim
But what they fail to do.
So let them fade like lantern smoke
That drifts without a will—
A heart that’s real keeps burning on,
A counterfeit grows still.
To step back through time
to change what happened for good
is to risk yourself—
the wound you long to unmake
is the scar that forged our fate
One thread pulled apart
unravels what you can't see—
unpredictably
reshapes the tapestry threads
woven by intervention
Who dares choose which grief
was needless, or wrongly borne
in egg unscrambled—
erase one hurtful moment
unmakes strength in resilience
When you do return
to the new now you have made
the past is erased—
But your memories retain
the world that once held your past
Stand in the present
the only way time allows—
see what might have been
as way paving the future
teaching us not to turn back
I am no bird—yet once I sang in cages,
Feeding on echoes, crumbs of borrowed thought.
My feathers learned the grammar of the ages,
My heart forgot the silence it had sought.
You built your walls from kindness, then from fear,
And called them love, or duty, or despair.
But winds remember what the stones won’t hear,
And names dissolve in unrepentant air.
Now, from your threshold, I unmake my chains,
Not with revolt, but with remembering—
That will is not rebellion, but remains
Of some first dawn, when even God took wing.
I go, unowned, untamed, still incomplete,
But whole enough to walk on my own feet.
I saved you from myself—
from the wreckage of the storms underneath my skin,
from the dark that devours even light,
from the corpse that barely clings to life.
I set you free, my love—
like a dove from trembling hands,
watching feathers vanish into dawn,
while my soul bled quietly behind a smile.
But in saving you, I broke what was true,
for the cage was never you—
it was me, and I stayed behind its bars,
counting echoes that still whisper your name.
I doomed the heart that truly loved you,
chained it to memories I can’t unmake,
to the scent of rain on your fading skin,
to the ghost of warmth that still burns in the cold.
Now you live in peace, untouched by the ruin,
while I drown in the calm I built for you—
a martyr of my own mercy,
a savior turned sinner
for loving too deeply,
and letting go too late.
If I had known redemption
would taste like the last goodbye,
I would have chosen the fire,
burned gladly—
and let the world watch me die
loving you.
They waited for wings.
For the shimmer of Michael’s blade,
For the thunder of Gabriel’s cry.
But none came.
The sky did not split with fire.
It froze.
And from the silence stepped One
Whose breath could still oceans,
Whose gaze could unmake lies.
He did not roar.
He whispered.
And the whisper was war.
No legion flanked Him.
No herald sang.
He walked alone,
Clad in frost and finality.
The slanderers laughed.
The righteous wept.
And the misunderstood stood still,
Unsure if this was wrath or rescue.
It was both.
He did not strike with steel.
He shattered with truth.
He did not burn.
He crystallized.
And when it was done,
The frost remained.
Not as punishment—
But as proof.
That God had fought.
Not through angels.
But through presence.
Through cold.
Through love that does not flinch.
at times,
I wish to unspin the sun’s thread—
to weave again the days I’ve torn,
perfect each flaw, unmake each thorn,
and paint life’s griefs in golden stead.
but maybe, the sky must bruise to bloom,
the rain must fall to birth perfume;
perhaps the soul learns more by breaking,
and beauty sleeps in hearts still aching.
so let it be—
this endless sea of rise and rest,
of grief and gain, of trial and test;
for life, in all its flawed design,
remains a miracle—divine.
What I Love – The Midnight Garden
Beneath the silver hush of moonlit air
The garden breathes with jasmine’s secret bloom,
Soft petals tremble, fragrances laid bare,
They weave enchantments in the quiet gloom.
The roses bow, their crimson hearts awake,
While lilies glisten on the mirrored lake.
The stars lean closer, whispering to the earth,
In darkness, blossoms find their truest worth.
What I Hate – The Plastic Tide
Upon the shore, the ocean beats her song,
Yet plastic shards invade her foaming breath,
They choke the waves that carried myths so long,
And stain her womb with fragments born of death.
The dolphins weave through broken glass in pain,
The seabirds starve where poisoned shells remain.
I rage against the greed that drowns the seas,
The world’s own hands unmake her harmonies.
autumn lingers unfinished
though cold drops november
rain and waits undiminished
'til native summer sun remembers
what could unmake
when days full ache
bloom autumn colors
quick winter all borders
golds greens yellows
reds purples browns
a rusted rainbow frowns
as leaves scoot over meadows
fallen from mountain forest
after fields have given harvest
a father of one teaches his son.
chase catching leaves for fun
they twist turn swivel pirouette
lunge leap slide slice 'til earth is whet
while boy staggers with arms stretched
missing while dad knows misdirect fetched
two and three leaves while son fustrated
cries to quit but egged on infuriated
at last by chance or by experience
claps and traps one in victory dance
Copyright © Cornelius Brantley | Year Posted 2024
autumn lingers unfinished
though cold drops november
rain and waits undiminished
'til native summer sun remembers
what could unmake
when days full ache
bloom autumn colors
quick winter all borders
golds greens yellows
reds purples browns
a rusted rainbow frowns
as leaves scoot over meadows
fallen from mountain forest
after fields have given harvest
a father of one teaches his son.
chase catching leaves for fun
they twist turn swivel pirouette
lunge leap slide slice 'til earth is whet
while boy staggers with arms stretched
missing while dad knows misdirect fetched
two and three leaves while son fustrated
cries to quit but egged on infuriated
at last by chance or by experience
claps and traps one in victory dance
The obscenely convincing,
have arrived in their stealth mobiles.
We are made to unmake-belief,
to regurgitate Saran wrapped words.
Wide-eyed we watch the spreading creep
of windowless thought-factories.
Druids rage for the loss of their tongues.
Magic dragons puff obesely
and cannot now climb their spines.
Combative batmen tussle
with spitting cats.
It all makes no-sense, and yet
we know the fantasy is built
on self-destructing concrete,
we see now how red lipstick
smothers us with a smirk
in the dark.
Too late to run for cover.
Even as we slumber
the mother of all bombs
gives birth to yet more
pre-packaged fictions.
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