By ‘Wale Olaogun
the first day i told you poetry/ i regretted
because every lines/ were a flame on your neck/
i thought metaphors were beautiful/
but you told me/ that poetry is a perplexed paradox/
i continued refiring/ later i met the
bullets of my songs/ at the balcony of your body/
a year gone/ and words still
merry-go-round/ at the south of your mind/
two years/ same story reflected/
on the manuscript of your response/
three years/ it became a game/
i was the loser/ you were no winner/
we both wandered/ in the wilderness you planted/
four years/ i came again/ same story/
same song/ poetry remains an unlyrical music/
to catch a monkey; you become a banana/
to kiss a lady; you become a lover/
in the face of war/
i held unto your hands/ like a gun/
in the battle of love/ I was
the vanquished/ i was the victor/
