Details |
Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun Poem
The Chronicles of our Liberty.
Liberty in reverse.
Our nation, a living mystery, bonded in trinity.
Herein lies our story.
Was it not yesterday, Freedom roamed and triumphed
in our backyard?
After our relished taste of liberty
from beings of a snowy land.
Who make our throats to melt like a wax before fire;
And as mortal before the pestle of time.
Under the scorching sun and heavy lashes,
Igniting in our souls, a paroxysm of pain.
Why do our lives droop again?
Like a kite trapped in a jagged tree
grumbling in shackles of thorns,
After a taste of prancing freedom in the azure.
In darkest silence of the night
With voices rested in the deep.
I took a glance at these parodies of paradoxical enigma,
Abimelech has eaten his brothers.
Strange tyrants repel to their frigid lands.
But where shall Freedom ward off our brothers,
Who trample our heads in mud to mount the glittering throne?
The tree we lean on makes itself a colossus of thorns.
Our loving brothers, become our strongest fetters.
Shall we not break it off
That we all may breathe?
“No more freedom after freedom,” says Freedom
"Unless we squelch our brothers away like a stench,
With no track of their stinking trails."
Until then,
Freedom vows to stay away.
Copyright © Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun Poem
????????????????
At the early dawn,
when eyes slip away from the fraying night.
I feasted upon a dime of hours lost.
The wasteful minutes,
the misheeded seconds,
life demands here.
At the moment,
I feel like running back to the past
like a wind,
To rewind the hand of time.
Clutching it down,
tight in the grasp of my hand.
and never let it slips away.
All but….
an illusion.
© ??????????????
Copyright © Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun Poem
Rebirth:
Tragedy has been your favorite genre—
A fount of acts and scenes
of wailing tears and excruciating scars
punctured alive by so-called healers.
That oozing wound
paints the genre that trickles down the plot of your story.
The parched lips, a speaking metaphor of your turgid deals
In the hands of those wandering away with lots of your heart in their claws.
I know the shivering voice hosted in the tender sheen skin of yours
Is not a language of aging;
a simulacrum of those who promise heaven
but shuffle hell down your throat.
I know your fate in the cruel, crooked hands.
fueling you, of course to make your heart a Jericho.
And swallow pain to yourself
only to sing the dirge in love.
I know love never resides here
Neither has its chorus any memories of remembrance.
I think it died.
If love is dead, let me be the raising prophet.
Let me tender this desert back to Eden,
where nature plume and sing again.
Copyright © Adediran Isaac Oluwasegun | Year Posted 2024
|