Adesola Oladoja redux

I

I am a broken poet 

with a-c-b-d,

I mean a-b-c-z, uh

My thoughts, disjointed;

seriously struggling to make sense,

coming, going, jumping, crawling

out of an aching head.

I am a broken verse

I like to be a ...

diving and ... all along,

dying at every attempt

to make musical melody

in lieu of melodramatic malady.

I am my father's son.

Last I saw him, I was

three,

munching a bag of flakes

he claimed to bring from hajj.

I am a nonsense poem

but somehow you are glued to me,

waiting to unearth

                   -unravel

                   -unleash the meaning

I bare.

I am a lover's woe,

coming when the bliss is sweetest,

leaving when the cry is saddest

for yet a little pat, a little tap,

a little moment of crazy upsurge,

wild electric frenzy. 

I am the hunter's 'gamed' game,

waiting to haunt back he who hunted

when dinner is nearly over, and

wives clutter in lively chinwag, 

I will enjoy the yelp, the roll, the thud

as he falls with his damaged

throat,

perforated by my bones. 

I am nothing

Don't waste till you catch me.

The answer on your lips,

when in silent wonder, you

leave men to torturous ponder. 

I, I, I 

I am you

when I want and please to be.

Now, you can go to bed,

pray your soul be fed,

rhythmic morsels, redeeming bread

to fine-tune your, your, your 

b-b-broken self. 

For now, I rest my wearied soul

  

two defaced busts of Virgil