by Muhammed Olowonjoyin 

After a sting of wanderlust in his chest, he marches—a seeker of elixir, into a universe of nowhere to quell the demons ricocheting inside him. His legs, weary as much as his face without the wander. His face, now a wilderness between hope and worn-out bridges. He marries himself to a garden of flowers—burying himself in the presence of each twig, fennel and the sadness of loss before painting the wind crimson with roses and peonies. The air, an abode for dead dreams and wishes. And from it, he awaits a voice. The floors, fear creeping into his chest because each fragment of sand carries the badge of a journey that ended there, on the road towards a search. Talk about time. On a hill half-existence away, boys collide with their fathers, and each is oblivious to touch or the reek of how much hope they consumed to get there. This too, might be how our yearnings become barricades that enslave our hearts—pervading our bodies like sleep & petrichor & anger. In the end, he journeys back to his abode, sands pouring out of his orifices.

 

Photo by Irina Iriser on Unsplash