This blazing ball of fire is
what I can’t touch in its eyes.
If I do, I’ll have four fingers left
to draw the print of my feet.
The waves of beautiful waters that glint
blue and the downpour of its dryness is the
lines of steam beneath my eyes…
I hopped over.
I felt the sweetness of lilies
and the blue cover cloud in my mouth.
And, a finger thrusts into the windows of
my dream, so I’d have four fingers to read
the parables in my palms.
Father left me in the portrait of his hunched
And, I took in my hands a dimple
from his chin and the Apple that destroyed
Adam in the tube of my lungs.
And in his back, the tongues of thorns were
unsheathed to slay his last egg.
My face was painted with beautiful
ridicules so that I’ll glimmer with filth and
my body was steamed in the hearts of
embers so that my wrinkled skin would be
mocked like the tales of the viral ugly
Brother bought me a pen and sister, a peel
of woods to craft the photograph of my
father whose body was shaken in the
Now, I found solace.
And I am the boy whose palms bleed to
write an anthology of his own plights.
– Osho Olaitan Jeremiah