Knave
Fortune Omosola
Kowope,
Ijoba is dying—restless,
Young hands, freckled with poverty, stumbling.
The iron gates are succumbing to dross,
End-time sermons can’t heal this loss.
Who would tell of it when the mouth refuses to close?
When shadows dance in the algorithm of punting,
The riders cheering the gift of their luck,
Sticking everything in.
The windows are closing again,
If you perceive well, you will see the echoes of despair leaking from the glass roofing,
Detached hands stretching out with fury to choke the lamp—dangling in the middle of a room.
Rebounds:2024
