After my mum’s funeral I learnt to peal my needs before my father
Who would ask me to wake at the third crow.
I’m not peter so the Messiah will let my senses snore till the tenth crow.
And this handshake almost broke my wrist before a bird learnt the wind can aid you in all but won’t build a home.
so I stayed up
To behold a figure positioning itself by my reading space , bowed head and absorbing silence with distinctive keenness.
The way my father attach himself to Walls testifies that Walls don’t just have ears, they whisper too.
His manner of cramming silence without chrome is questionable.
I caress my buttocks on the partly cemented floor and osculated my hands on the table.
He brought out an old file hosting a certificate and two medals dating back to Adam. His name is the only survival on this monochrome.
The silence lingers till the fifth crow and
My father said:
No man walks off a good dream except those weaken by the aftermath of choices . That’s why thunder and lightening mate; to birth a pluviophile: someone who’d live to perform unrehearsed scripts.
I affirm by imitating the lizard yet in a dark chamber at the corner of my heart where I hide the memories and counsel of my mother, I think ” nearly has failed to bring my father a bird” and he is trying to make me believe he is not a failure.