I’m right there in the middle of a sunflower garden,
Hoping there are no funeral songs today,
While I gather petals and camouflage them into roses,
Pitching my voice as collateral to the collision of each flower stem.
At a pause of my breath,
It suddenly feels that isn’t me,
It jolts through me like a magnetized set of visuals interjected in my head,
It rewinds with aggression and shows me a desolate land of caskets,
Drawing me to feel the horrific bellows of the dead,
They strangle me for my audience to entertain their regrets.
In another flash of a nudge,
I’m taken to my mother’s kitchen,
She stirs a lump of flour on the pan and invites me for breakfast,
And in the most adorable winkle, she tells me reality will be fine.
Idris writes from Northern Nigeria, West Africa, and is currently pursuing a bachelor's degree in Agriculture at the University of Ilorin. He writes poetry and prose and has a keen interest in journalistic writing. Asides from writing, Idris derives pleasure in speaking and just exploring the artistic values embedded in life's animate and inanimate features.