By Vincent Onyeche
There is a mark on the white ceiling
Crucifix shaped, dark brown and black, bleeding
Out, in form of a growing masquerade head,
Struggling to return against gravity’s lead.
Extending and growing the marks on the ceilings,
Remaining as leftover from scars of the rains
Soaked by the long ages from the light and heavy tears,
And then drops in particle onto the wet colorful tiles.
Absorbed for years: it took ages to see it coming
Suddenly it cries, did the roof hurt the ceiling?
No one understands the seasonal adjustments
Each ceiling go through when it rains or when it shines.
Yet you say I hurt your feelings
When you are the perforated roof
And my heart is the absorbing ceilings
While my brain is the tiles wet as a proof.
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