JEREMIAD: "A DAY IN CELL" BY LASISI VICTOR

Supreme order from malevolent spokesman

who we shed little oil to

his balded forehead as atonement offering.

In a two roomed, too roofed confined half cell, 

where dominance and prejudice roam around like spirits of ancient deities.

Empty naked colotin as pillows to willow, wallowers of atmospheric chocking smell,

pungent and suffocating;

A diluted chemistry that failed to balance.

Barely brood, brotherhood, tools of devil,

Of hardard; deviled to tools.

In a minute too inn, each man per silver ring,

Natural selection accomplice provoking conditions,

black holes on foreskin, elephant skinned forepaws,

knotted by a mental metal-door; in rude pigment, in angry red.

Pathways blindfolded, shield of fogs and humidity, 

smoke of decaying tooth, unspoken for several years.

A large rock of eternal seal, epithet with 

handling precautions: 'fit to contain' and

'contained for continuous fitting' -

to avoid stories that touch the soul.

Lifeless like lukewarm lake

whose wave was stolen by desperate thieves,

For a force of black idols await worshippers with boundless bounty of joy.

Missing a pallette;

yet undiscovered colour,

Except by aliens that could crush their golden gods.

An hour in cell,

each minute passing like light-years.

A statement written, trembly by pair of shackled hands,

Bruised and broken upon forcing to crack,

each rustling cartilage would cost thirty shekels of silver

but could hold nothing not,

as pen stutters it's stifled lips at the edge of a weightful modern papyrus

Inking riots and in tongues unspoken from within;

Like pressuring a balloon till it burst and

tear it's flexible skin in pain, bleeding profusely air,

Who does the puffing?

Whosoever could read this prison note,

be it a warder, celler or a fellow criminal,

Whose offence was scripted in the heart of wicked iron,

For slinging a mockingbird,

tussling with a pig in the mud,

Or an inverted case of mislegging a porous journey,

burdening a bag of familiar troubles, and

clothing a naked truth that tortures the soul.

Let it be known to you; nothing o'er me!

which wrong have ever been done 

that became a fatal flaw?.

LASISI VICTOR OLUWADAMILARE

- Nigeria 

The poet persona laments the terrible experiences of imprisoned persons. Such that, the bard does not feel any offence should warrant such dehumanising consequences.