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By Fayola Bingham

Predatory neighbours

disengage

in psychological standoffs

as they pass,

I persist in the quest for a

paternal shield,

shards dispersed in

disparate realms of the past

There’s a silhouette of a dwelling; 

with corner libraries offering a semblance of —

over inviting pieces of worn upholstery,

I slow my pace

I return to a damp pocket

with cold fingertips;

the needle still points false

Look on my mother's compass

I forage with the burden

of home on my shoulders;

intrusive branches hit my arms

with little remorse.

Half-buried stones pierce

the mattress on the soles of my feet

through labyrinthine paths

I meander to a place

where welcomed footprints

defile my encampment

from transient companions,

in a mutual exchange for

fleeting fulfilment,

bear my company

I strike my pegs with more force—

layers of dirt become an insulation;

while my scleras decide to wash themselves—

my flints demand more labour to elicit a spark

I pillow my cheeks against an empty backpack,

fixated on a yellowed leaf

succumbing to decay at its roots.

A stream flows across my nasal overpass

I close my eyes to the stench of rot,

I drift off in the beginnings

of a tomb in which

I have no desire to scaper.

#darkpoetsclub