I dare not ask why the sun hesitates to beam/ perhaps
it too prays one finds love in the dark/ or it
too searches for love but
does not tell/ and it retires into the moon
when its sinew bankrupts.
let the answers tarry on the breasts of riddles/
Yet
the loss of love/
symbolizes
dystopia/ maybe pretense for its existence
is sigil for they who dread
solitude/ or a nimbus for the spent and faint or
for they who exist in a vacuum but deny its void. It
remains a mystery.
One cannot anymore deceive a corpse
to believe it sleeps/ sleep is not made with the
plush of permanent twilight/ death is. and maybe
the sun shines/ but we are blind to see
the ascent of 'love'--- maybe we are cadavers
and our search eulogized our own defeat.
by Ogah Friday David
Ogah Friday David is an essayist and literary aesthete. He has featured poems in Nantygreens Mag, The Rising Phoenix Review, EBOquils, IHRAF [International Human Rights Arts Festival] Publishes, and Agapanthus Magazine. When not writing, David reads works on African literary criticism and watches a lot of movies.
photo credit: NASA Johnson
Aayo Magazine 