By
Oki Kehinde Julius
Trigger of Revenge
leave me,
let me pull this trigger of revenge,
on the forehead —of horror’s angels
who made my parent swim through the flood of blood.
leave me,
let me percussion the melody of this gun to sing;
to the ears of liquidators
who forced papa’s legs to dance
to the talking drum of death.
at a tender age,
i became a helpless orphan,
who gloried under the roof of beggary and starvation.
at two, they made mama’s saggy nipple
became taboo to my wretched tongue,
choosing Julius berger’s bridge
as an abode,
when papa’s house had been dilapidated into a parallel foot mat.
mama’s sacred back
i craved as bed, on that fateful night;
when the sun had gone to sleep
leaving the mantle for the moon and stars of galaxy.
echoes of guns
was the banging hands
that banged our tattered door,
till this coward doors became shievering
and fear woo its consent
to open itself ajar.
i pleaded to them with my loud lament,
since the only language i used to communicate then, is to cry.
in cruelty, i saw how their bloody bullet
travelled into the sacred bossom of papa’s belly,
leaving mama, to suffer the plague of blood pressure,
till oxygen finds its escape route out of her nostril.
who will preach the sermon of mercy to me?
when my parents were forced
to answer the clarion call of death
and eat from the ghost
the bean cake of fatality.
who will fire the catapult of beckon to me?
when i was made to eat the spicy bread of miseries
and drink the mishap water of tears
with cataclysmic cup of calamity.
forgiveness, is what the creator forgot to write
on the dictionary platters of my life,
when he was baking my clay into shape
in the haven —of heaven’s cradle.
mercy is the tale, my hacken ears will never listen to;
even after i will have finished turning their homes
to the catchment of cemetery
and crescents of graveyard.
hold me not,
for i want to pull this trigger of revenge.
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