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I dream of a black man
running around the streets of my illusions
I see him in torn attires, he weave upon his head
broken baskets and his feet are wayfarers.
I dream of him when I sleep
and I wake to see him buried in my eyeballs
I see him sing with the night and the owl
and the scars upon his forehead makes me remember my grandmother.

I dream of a mad man
I see him run in circles like a man finding shelter
in the cold corridors of a webbed maze,
I see him move his mouth to mock me and my believes,
and my fate and my faith and my fate

This mad man knows my story
he was here when I was taught to drink blood
of brothers in a brothel of darkened desires
he was here when I was taught to knot pain
in the heavy heart of onlookers
this mad man was here when my grandmother
sketched the scar of witches upon my forehead

This mad man is me trying to live again
in the hands of a white world where
rainbows and scents of rain still come as travelers
and the night perches on the shoulders of reality
and the moon stands atop our roofs without guilt or blood
or bizarre anger about sacrifices we didn’t make
this mad man is me starting a fire of lunatics
on these streets where our fingers and teeth
have called souls into graves beneath our feet

This mad man is the picture of my grandfather
walking through those junctions
with the wicked hands of his lovely wife.


Adeyemi Agarau is a young poet. He grew up and resides in Nigeria.

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