My eyes are full of tears like a morning
dew sprinkles in the sky. & sitting at the
school’s balcony, awaiting my dead
father to come for me in human’s form,
like he did the day his body enfranchised
his soul, hurt more than blotches salt on
a wound. Each time I see Lekan’s father
in our school to pick him up, memory
clamped onto my feet. I must confess,
memory is a razor, it tears my heart.
When he was alive, he knew I fancy
red rose. He used to pluck them for me
on his way to my school. Suddenly,
I love anything blue. Now, I must
repay his kindness; left a dark crimson
rose on his grave, & wet his grave with
tears like the acres of sludge with convenient
tsunami that leaves everything clear.
