Oblivion beckons again,
like a can of beer dripping in chill sweats,
after a brief elevation of my encumbered soul
by a fleeting lightning.
It’s all dark
and I can’t tell my days from my nights
nor when I’m awake from when I’m asleep anymore,
not even while I pace, flustered, clumsily
about the sprawling terrain of life,
of my life at the crossroads of definition
where fantasies after pillaging my strength
have opened my pores for the labyrinths to seep through
and ravage everywhere like some bouts of fever.
So I have recoiled, withdrawn
since the wars have shifted,
since the battle now is only against sinking,
drowning completely in the deep seas
of inebriety, jaunts and marathon sleeps;
and yielding my soul finally to the grave in my lost heart.
So I, floating, now write only to paint loss,
and I as a stubborn ghost
bestriding here and hereafter like a sedated dreamer
or a zombie;
or how would you rather define overwhelmed?
is a playwright, poet, essayist and fiction writer from Nigeria. He holds a First Class B.A. in English. His works appear in Praxis Magazine, Kalahari Review, Ngiga Review and Spillwords, and forthcoming in Sub-Saharan Magazine. He spends most of his time in his head, but you can sometimes find him on Twitter @bayo_aderoju or Facebook @Bayo Aderoju.
Cover photo credit: Doyin Deji