by Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi
On the 7th day
It is a weekend and I relax in solitude,
watching the weeds grow into tulips
and sing the world Carte Garde to sleep.
Just that it is not a weekend, and
I am still staring at the holiness
I can make of this poem that chose
to unfit the world. But the solitude is true.
Solitude is always true.
Henceforth,
Even hurt is a feel to be preferred over nothing.
The best is only wished.
It’s not that you’re not finding death,
you’re also finding an excuse to live.
