When a poet wears a circlet o’er his neck
It could mean it’s a downbeat
It could also mean that he wants that restrictive
aim that has been willed for him to claim; he is
in his musing period and he is in darn need of
someplace cozy to scribble.
So in want to evade distractions
He creates a comfortable porch in the guise of
nods, and moderately flees into introspection
each time he gets an opportunity, and dashes
back – in milliseconds, when there’s a call for
And when he’s caused to sham
Even with every try he’s made to think deep
He’ll be shamed within
But he’ll put on a sham;
Looking so occupied
So juiced up
But at that point he could leave you abashed,
and plea he needs to get home; that he needs
to get prepared for tonight.
And that tonight! He’ll let his mind wipe off
charades. He’ll swing into that very thought
that puts him in seclusion. That coat of
tumultuous feeling that imps his mind and
fetters his stride.
Tonight He’ll be his own muse, which muses
bemusement. He’ll shed slimy, reeling liquids
that root its ills on tracks it makes on his face;
making wave to his chin, rather than tears
seeking thrills or enthrall.
The morose cascades has been his
convenience –
Being solitary is like lyrics sung to him
So he would desert life – that there’s chunk in
He believes, and under his breathes and will
With all verve, that even after that night, as
long as he wears the circlet – lone he will still
be; leering to its lures and oddities
Solitude has always ossified him.

- Uwen Precious Ogban

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