trapped metaphors and antitheses crawled out from its compartment
up and high, down and low
papers of a million sonnets filled the inside of it
the visual of air hitting the curtain.
with each poem a tear of its own.
another torn curtain now mops the floor
it was the box of the last evolving poet.
poor blue drape with the pattern of a lady on a canoe.
years ago, they ordered the execution of all poets
my curtain is the vocal sac of a horny frog
leaving a world with moderate comparison to exist without them
if the hand of the wind is strengthened
but today, a million lives would taste the beauty birthed by ink of these poets
the sudden current of the curtain would whip my cup over the desk
these evolved, dead poets
and feed the lady on the canoe with water to mop.
because these sonnets are flying the world
this is the link;
as i allow the wind to carry them
how the state of the poor, and the rich, plus our knowledge of poetry depends on the
Isaac O. Daramola (he/him) is a poet, writer, and a Biomedical Science student at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He’s currently working on his debut crime/thriller novel and a poetry collection. His work has appeared in journals such as Cephalopress, Mineral Literary Magazine, What are Birds, Pangolin Review, and the University’s Editorial Board.