Ways Of The World


My night was a beautiful bastard

An horrible son of my thoughts of uncensured wings.

My thoughts are crumbled gravels in delicious dishes

served my mum, my dad, my siblings and the society.


My thoughts are

Why we cannot sleep and wake into some past days

and must be the next day…

why the earth is our place and not

somewhere within the space


my thoughts are

why we need to cry in pain

and laugh in joy,

why not be sad in the room of laughter?

why not laugh at the banquet of sorrows?


then my night

was an arrival of my long desired nemesis

an home coming of worthy expulsion from rest.


here I am

somewhere between the clearity of darkness

and gloom of lights,


we see to be blind and we

are blind to see…


thier clothes are decorated nakedness

and protruding decadence,

they laugh because there is only a slice of

bread for a thousand mouths,


their sorrow comes

in the season of plenty,

when oceans swell water and not blood

when the rain is not a fall of huge stones…


when birds sing and do not cry

when the sheep do not devour their sons or daughters…



the day is a beautiful herald of fear

and chaser of children into surreptitious closets.



the night is a gallant brightness in her proudly prime

works are smooth and we  walk in cadences

through the crevice that links the abyss of struggles

to the den of futility…


here I come.

my home of marooned oblivion

my journey into familiar strange land…



I shall be the way I ever wanted to be….


just at a breath to being awake,

my left finger points

to tell God he was a bastard.

that was because he might have woken me.

I hate the smile of the sun at 10

then I rose to tell mum a good night,

and wished her struggles and pains in her crevices

as she steps out to work. it was morning…


my silent prayers were the curses that woke

the neighborhoods.

my shirt is only an umbrella to cover my head

from the rain that falls from the sun


it is mad men who wear clothes

i need none! not a pant.


let me run!

i must catch the tides of time in my tentacles,

the prize for this is a precious handful of nothingness…


let me laugh at men

that are lunatic.

they are packed in onions of coats

and decorated in colours of paints.


why should you garment maggots in beautiful nothing?


I laugh at men

that are retched.

they build crumbling heights in debilitating mansions

of offices, homes, and towers of possessions.

one pauper owns a 30floor  decked house

so poor that when he died

he lacks even a cap to wear into the beautiful world of true wealth.

brought from his topmost floor

to lowest space of earth-

some 6feet deeper.

poor man,

not even able to pay at the gay gate of the grave.



I walked through the busy

road in caty pace of scorn and pride,

I lauged at lazy humans,

they wake before the trumpet of

necessary time

to vend for vanity in serious insanity

of transactions, and strive…


they know not the tales of times and trials

where trial gets tired and time is never used,

where trial dies and time ticks gently

and intentionally in the watch on intelligent wrists…


I cannot be less happy

I boldly walk the way of the world

without the insanity of clothing

but with pure brilliance of a body, a clay, a food for grave…



they spoilt my paradise,

wicked humans that are cocooned

in perpetual melancholy and pains and folly.

just at a jump into serenade world of aqua-creatures,

a world of songs and sex without gender cognizance…


just at a jump

from this low  height of bricks and roads

and cars and noise and pollution and mechanics

and deleterious properties…


just at a jump…


my mother and grandmother are here

my father and grandfather are here


grandmother said I have walked

the ways her mothers never walked

grandfather said I have seen the

sights his fathers never saw

mum said I dared the God of all the earth

dad said I loved the god of all the world…


But one thing of all,

for which alone I am sure-

I only asked

why we need to do things the ways

they should be done.


When I read this poetry

then I told my self

thoughts are wide wild wheels with wand of wonders

I choose to rather think and dance to the music of muse

than get mad on the merry-go-round of mixed mind


Author: Adeyemo E.O

Adeyemo E.O is poet and writer, who functions conveniently in all forms of writing. He works with blogs and publishing magazines. He was born in the early 90s and studies at Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile Ife, Nigeria.



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