#30 SIN CHRONICLES-FINAL VERSE | A COLLECTION OF FIVE POEMS

This is the last verse I will drop on the Sin Chronicles series. For those of you who enjoyed it from the first verse, thanks for sticking around. Maybe I should compile them into a collection, eh?

With this poem, I wanted to play with the words drip and drop. I love the rhythm in them and the image they evoke.

_{Pixabay:Annca}

It also has in it the beginnings of something dark but I didn't develop the theme much as I didn't want it to get too dark or two long. Maybe the gloom is there a bit, you tell me.

Drip, drop, drop.
Water falls steady drip,
Rhythmic flow of sound
Echoing somewhere,
Some dark place
Filled with eyes,
Angry, hungry eyes.

Drip, drop, drop.
Tap leaking liquid song.
It is the base of the beat;
Heart throbbing, inhale, exhale,
The sigh of the hunting wind,
Silence... Then drop, drop, drip.

A moan swelling vibration,
Pushing, pushing, the song.
Heart moans, sighs drip; music?
A scream, running feet, door shut,
The faint insistence of drip, drop,
Drip, drop, drop.

This poem tries to paint a picture of a fertile earth. Everything is fresh and full with potential for something new, something awesome.

_{Pixabay: Marco Roosink}

The poem infuses the possibility of this vision being deceptive as weed (marijuana) might be causing the feeling of rebirth and renewal being felt by the poet persona . As such the feeling the poem tries to give cannot be trusted.

Sweet smelling grass
Freshly cut,
The ovulating song
Of first rains combing
The groaning clouds,
The songs of distant birds
Mating the air with melodies,
The sweet smoke of weed
Curling from wet lips,
The beginning of new things.

Every man has, at one time or the other, been told to be a man, to sit straight, to raise his chin, to always win. Society has a predefined role for a man and when we do not fit into those roles, we become failures in the eyes of even those who claim to love us.

_{Pixabay: Lucaszdylka}

The poem below basically emphasizes some of the traits and expectations that society has placed on being a man. In this process, it shows that it is not always so easy and nothing is black and white. We are blurred shapes at the end, androgynous at best, nonconforming at worst.

Let me stop here.
What is done is done.
What is the date?
Will tomorrow start a new day?
Or is tomorrow today?

Look me in the eye,
Raise your chin,
Be a man.
Strut your penis,
Swing it, left, right,
Give a powerful roar,
Never show fear,
Be a man.

I want this job
But I am too old.
My wife is pregnant again
And we are too young.
My blood pressure is up
I shouldn't be this sick,
Life's too short.

Face your foes,
Finish your fights,
Be a man.
Concrete your spine,
Never ever cry,
Escape the rat race,
Be a man.

I am drunk again,
My tie askew.
I am lost again,
My mind abused.
I am cursed yet again,
My soul accused.
Be a man.

This basically chronicles my journey from birth till date. Though I have not mentioned some other places that i have lived, I have mentioned the important ones.

_{Pixabay: Free-photos}

In each movement, I seek freedom, an escape from where I am from and who I am. I find that at the end, I am not sure if I am finally free. It sucks.

From Effurun the journey,
It began.
Come, walk with me.
To DSC, the escape was planned.
At Aghalokpe, a path was picked.
Come and see what has become
Of all that we could have been.
In Abraka, pain was relived
And yes, broken gods do cry.
At Zamfara, an escape prepared,
Yet in Benin was Limbo
And then Warri with scented prayers.
To Abuja, the journey wandered.
Escape beckoned and broken gods
Birthed broken beings.
To Warri again and again;
Escape denied.
In Benin again; sunshine.
Freedom?

This poem was simply an opportunity to make mention of several deities in the Yoruba/Benin Parthenon, at least that was the inspiration behind it.

Ogun, Olodumare, Olokun, Orunmila are gods in the Parthenon, worshipped among the Yoruba and Benin people of Nigeria.

_{Pixabay: Darksouls1}

Somehow, the poem ends up speaking about a man who is the romantic interest of a woman whom he fears. The dialogue between the man and the woman as well as the man's interior monologue propels the poem. The poem might be considered to be erotic. I do not know whether to make it NSFW or not. I think I will let it be.

Come to me she says.
Ogun save me!
Wash your feet and step,
Yes step in and sit,
Beside me, sit, she says.
Oh My fathers see me!
Her skin shines with coconut oil,
Supple soft and dark as sin.
I have trekked from Sakponba
To Oluku; my feet is dusty
With stories of farther places.
I whisper.
Keep your stories, she says.
Scratch my back.
Ha! Olodumare!
I am but a worm beneath
Your silent regard.
Her skin is supple soft
Like melting fat on goat skin,
Her skin scents of sweat, warm mats,
Sacrifices and blood, new blood.
Olokun! Give me strength.
Touch me here, she whisperes.
I am finished, my fathers!
My head, I am dead!
Where are the gods of my line?
She has me between her thighs.
They are strong and with each wriggle,
I sink lower and lower still
Into the volcano erupting beneath.
Oh sweet pain, oh sweeter still,
This forbidden thing, this sin.
A curse comes of this, I groan.
She chuckles and wipes me clean.
I will have your child.
You are mine now, she says.
Ha Orunmila, you did not see this?
My head, I am dead.

©warpedpoetic, 2018.