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