If I must build towers from resurrected graves…:A poem 

Would I feel the insolent, impudent charade of shadows 

take the azure of the sky out of my eye! 

And fill my face with the sodomy of grave blackening 

I have, like Atlas, carried the world, even shouldered the tears of the stars 

in a looming infinite unending night of grief 

Shoveling up the graves of the universe 

to resurrect those souls that died in valour! 

And who did taste the reams of sweat and blood pouring out of my orifices 

That as I snuggled in the wombs of singularity 

All that I marrowed in the bones of my soul would be burrowed out in quasar bursts 

And the incubation would end up in a painful gestation 

Ad infinitum(?) 

A child has a construct in mind with his lego bricks, 

I have memory! 

Is, then, my divination, divination enough? 

Did I see myself emerge confident in the light of a knowing adulthood? 

Or did I despair in the tragedies of sad realisations? 

Does a harsh reminder of crucifix occult my vision with futility 

then be I forgetful of the things that were mine all along? 

So should I carve the story with all cherished things in stature 

away from the pretentious bouquets that they seek to present me, 

when in fact these are brickbats that will cause destruction of my worthy self-realisation? 

Should it not be the awakening of all deserving, and not their weakening? 

That we feel sunrise when it is twilight and even when there is sunset!