Alas! The World Became an Empty Drum

Alas! The world became an empty drum

when you thump it, it resonates a scary sound
thunderous blast of bullets and dense smoggy sky
the fragrance of gunpowder and debris dancing above.
From afar I have seen it coming as my eagle-eye peered
through the dusk to see the drum of the gone world.

Those nightfall when we sat, forming an unbroken chain
around the storyteller, fearless of the night missiles.
We sat watching the corona revolving around the moon
and to listen to moonlit tales of grandma's favourite tortoise

we pushed tires across the bumpy roads and t-junction streets
barefoot and bare-chested, unafraid of bullets that might spray.
Then, our world was filled like a drum of sacred water sanctified
with juvenile candour, ignorance, and infinite innocence

we molded an abode above our feet with thick mud
even when we never were worried to own a single room
we ran on a cloudy day and saw the sky chasing us
we ran, fearless of the mirage, seeing the sky falling upon us

we would set the kite in a race through the vacancy
daring the deadly crash that might befall the earth
we danced naked in the rain, mindless of insanity.
Then the world was silent. Serenity canopied our juvenile sky.

Ignorant of my worthy sojourn, I world grab
the naked strip of electric copper when beating
or sometimes jumped from the storey so I could die
and plastered tears on the cheek of hers who beat me

But I saw it flowing, the leakages beneath the juvenile drum
and I looked as the sacred water trickled out. I looked
as ages mounted ages, I saw it becoming dark
the bright sun retreats her rays and the dim hues rule over

the once trodden soil we dipped our legs becomes hot
and spurs us into perpetual race after insatiable wants
we die of unborn fears even before the black angel knocks
we walk in fast pace, ducking the fragments of Haramic bombs

At the defiance of the owners, we watch as dear lives
are vigorously pluck like the feathers of a Christmas chicken
and teeth gnashing in a conflagration like a roasted bush meat
we live wide exposed to inhumane peril of the mad menacers

I saw it leaking, till the volume became minute
the drum of old innocent, fearless days grew empty
the rays of sun that once shone dissipates into the black sky.
I heard it booming, the destructive sound of fatal iron balls
the fragrance of gunpowder and debris dancing above

Alas! The world became an empty drum

Tag: Timpaker
Everestdebliu
Krystalxxx
Buqqui
Firestar
Gloriaz
Johnbright
JigsawKillah
Oahray
Texanomaly
LarrySun
Ishilove

Thanks for reading.

OMA you are a true craftsman of words. Every time I read one of your poems or stories, I'm swept away to that place in my mind. You bring my senses alive, and I'm there in the scenes you so eloquently describe. Thanks

WoW


OMA
I did most of the things mentioned there but didn't try to kill myself lol
kids these days don't play, the world is now too dangerous for that

texanomaly:
OMA you are a true craftsman of words. Every time I read one of your poems or stories, I'm swept away to that place in my mind. You bring my senses alive, and I'm there in the scenes you so eloquently describe. Thanks

Hey! I'm so so glad to have your review here. Thank you so much. Your comment is my fuel.

JigsawKillah:
WoW


OMA
I did most of the things mentioned there but didn't try to kill myself lol
kids these days don't play, the world is now too dangerous for that

Seriously, as a kid I attempted suicide many times. Life was so meaningless to me and death always seem to be the panacea.

OMA4U:


Seriously, as a kid I attempted suicide many times. Life was so meaningless to me and death always seem to be the panacea.

Like seriously? Sounds strange that a nigerian child can contemplate suicide... I've often thought suicide was alien to nigerian children.

Nice poem all the same.

OMA4U:


Seriously, as a kid I attempted suicide many times. Life was so meaningless to me and death always seem to be the panacea.

Oh OMA I'm so sorry Hun. I had no idea your childhood was so unbearable. No wonder you are such a good writer. The best writing comes from pain more often than happiness unfortunately.
((hugs))

texanomaly:


Oh OMA I'm so sorry Hun. I had no idea your childhood was so unbearable. No wonder you are such a good writer. The best writing comes from pain more often than happiness unfortunately.
((hugs))

Yeah. Childhood experiences shape the way I see things and as well reflects in my writing.

Thanks for the hug. It's cosy and warm like the radiation of flames during harmattan season.

joseph1832:
Like seriously? Sounds strange that a nigerian child can contemplate suicide... I've often thought suicide was alien to nigerian children.

Nice poem all the same.

Thanks, bro.

timpaker:
Heheheheheeheh.. I don't know but I find this poem hilarious
The piece is highly picturesque and captivating.

OMA4U, may your ink never run dry...

Funny ba? Those were the wonderful things we did as kids. But now life has taken another direction.