By Jean A.P Abbey

 

Dreams.
I used to have them once upon a time.
Those glory days when we used to meander within the perimeters of creative paradigms.
Breaking rules,
Wandering in the lost gardens of the divine.

My words once had heart.
Beating, every second of each day’s hearth.
Like the breath of a furious dragon.
My passions rousted from the combustion brewed by my own ontological pains.
This man is just old now and almost gone.

Seated on the sofa peering into the past and the present;
Through the window of this home for the dead and descent.
Nurses in white, flapping hands like flamingos rousing to fly.
It seems like a day mare.
An intense deluge of fear.

My will is to die and not be remembered.
For men to not read about me and quiver.
That my memory be loathed and worthless like feeble silver.
For my soul is a flower that should wither.
Hang me here in my shame.
That I may be gone forever.

In my Vulcan years of fire.
I swam in hell.
A loyal soldier.
Confused by my Camarilla brothers.
The hawthorn Friars.
“Pray tell, let the truth be our guide and let justice bid our desires”.
The oath of vultures waiting to reap off the spoils of war.

I was a rebel without a cause.
A nescient of God’s course.
The shallowness of my soul veiled my eyes from light.
Hate enshrouded my vision with blinding darkness.
The exoculateness of my innate sight.

Didn’t I write the revolution of Zion?
Warring years spent living under the grace of a bullet shot faster than an adversary’s.
Fates decided by judgments, justified by vain lions.
Didn’t I pay my dues for salvation?

But now my war is not with men or ideals.
My war is with myself and my will.
For I had thought myself a god.
A ravaging beast of war.
I am nothing less of a rabid, old dog.
Worn out from years of hunting and brawls.
My years of fighting for an idea nought to fogs.

Still the world is a man in the street.
Still we travail in Oedipus’s shit.
All my battles and victories caught in a sham.
I was a fool.
I had believed and lived a scam.
I am as vague as the rest of them.

Now I sit as I replay all my foolishness.
In regret and sadness.
I am watching my present deteriorate.
The offspring of my ignorance.
I orchestrated this ravelin nuance.
Slowly this old man disappears.
For I am weak from grudges and violence.

“Mr Jonas, your son is here to see you.”
The flamingo with an angelic voice echoed.
“Is that man my son?”
My memory belout
My mind mellowed
This man is just old now and almost gone.

 

About the Poet

Jean A.P Abbey is a Nigerian writer/Poet who hails from the South-south
region of Nigeria, Rivers state.
He is a lover of the arts as well as literature and hopes to finish his
book of poems written by him this year. He is a freedom activist and a
Christian.

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