It's dark here Bleak dark Very, very dark. Here, I'm a frail foetus Conceived of an action Cuffed to these walls Chains for umbilical Soon to be born. My joints ache, to random spasms Out of my apparent convictions, to action From here, it's 9 minutes to labour When I shall be born to my doctor's judgment Of prejudice, Sentiments Or on mercy and favour. My mother is black And her name is Maria Despite my violent tantrums, She still has chosen to be my carrier Taking me to where I shall meet destiny And the powers of divine or designed law Shall then, manifest in me Sending me... from this womb, to boom or from this womb, into the walls of a tube—another womb and if the Doctor happens to be in a bad mood I will be transplanted into another womb. The tomb.
—REZthapoet
© Abdulrazaq Adebola "REZthapoet" Afolabi. All rights reserved. The contents of this page may not be copied or reprinted, either physically or electronically, without permission from the author. For more information, contact REZthapoet.