Image by BeccaH from Pixabay

All my friends left the violence
-after Christian Wiman

Here, the brown eyed desert the storm & the
remains of the salt. the other one trips over
metallic bodies and smoked lungs. the other one
shells her body into a sea of pillows. sojourn species
spurting white liquids. heavy breaths beneath a roughed
sky. this one grits his teeth against the wildness of the
pain, of the slits. Here, bones creak like doors jabbing
into the lyrics of an afropop. that one synched with
the brawls of myopic intelligence. Emmanuel beats
the sky out if its pigment. a cloak of many things left
unsaid. this one is a rainforest on wildfire. this one lurks
behind torn grounds, rolls stratas to a volcanic uproar,
salivates and await rapture. this one brands artistic
values overnight that it brews more coffee and sad nights.
Ayo fingers his flowers at the verge of bloom. paperbo-
ats birding away as light particles. Ada claimed the oak
tree births more future-acquainted curses. this one grills
her fish with an open mouth. this one travels down the
city in robes and butterflies-imprinted slides. this one
communes with inanimate objects. this blue is more
than just a collection of grief. in utmost interest, it is a
path from the ruins littered with rejections. this one is
a city of opaque beams scrutinizing really hard at grasping
the remains of life. All my friends left the violence at the city.
caged in torches, carved into the body of hummingbirds,
stretched into earth; a decadent of stars and scars, of nights
and sobriety, of carbonation and the blue louver. in angelic
presences and dead butterflies. All my friends left the violence
but brought nothing except the violence.

Dipe Jola is a poet, a lover of nightmares scribbled into lines of poetry. Published on Kalahari Review, Echelon Review, Turnpike Magazine, NantyGreens, African Writer, Synchronised Chaos, amongst others. She was the First runner up for the Eriatar Oribhabor Poetry Prize, 2018. She finds her way in life by writing what she sees, feels and hears. She writes from the lower bed of a two-bunked bed in Lagos, Nigeria. Can be reached on Twitter via @Jola_ng

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