An unsuspecting death happened at night,
A writer reads the seasons from the lines of his palms
Invisible maps drawn with potions as ink for a sorcerer,
To decipher whispers words, heard from invisible beings;
They populate the empty spaces of the imaginary realm –
What do you do, if your life is not what you have imagined it to be?
The primal sentiments of life find expression in regrettable dreams
Like nightmares that claim our lives when we least expected, in awe.
We are totems of memory, lucky to be what we want to be;
This earth is too crowded with dreamers wandering empty streets,
And in overwhelmed places where the symbols of our human enigma
Flash back at us, through the glitter of neon lights, meaningless signs
Signaling recession and the paranoid rhetoric of contested faiths –
Victims of the gnarled complexities of existence, perceived as conjurers
Inventors of novelties, custodians of memory, word whisperers.
Pop-culture icons dance, drunk; before they act out their fantasies of suicide,
A comic tragedy that beguiles us by the magnitude of wasted dreams –
Every ghost of memory was once a life in flesh, lived, loved and laughed.
The writer writes, wondering if life is a whisper from a distant echo
Vibrating from the galaxies of un-phantom-able dreams –
Knowing that, every death leaves behind, ghostly echoes of memory.
Kabu Okai-Davies, Phd, Novelist, Poet
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