Silent Pen

For Omondi Ochuka

 

When these perishable petals

gnaw at the spirit &

sap the will

down to its weakest element,

our existence chokes on strange savage.

 

Is pain the measure of faith?

If so, then tip the scales to debar fate’s unprecedented

bias.

 

A subtle soul,

endowed with the magic of the pen:

god of epistles, metaphors and metaphysical hieroglyphs.

A Homer, Baldwin, Amiri reincarnate.

A humble soul – deep as the waters of the Atlantis,

beneath whose ocean floor lay relics of intricate miracles.

A thought beyond its time.

A brother, a mentor, a pro-phet, the waking dust in your footprints I follow like a hungry student;

if I’m Nietzsche, then you’re Schopenhauer’s penchant for the sublime.

 

Atheism polemicist: how do I even pray, bard? To whom?

 

Thus, let these words ignite the fire you stoked in Meeting the Eclipse as your polemics sired Portal Keys and Diagnosis.

 

Let these words be mine and Spook’s energy channelled by pure intent and pray you drink the chalice and dry your wet wings again.

 

Let these words be a thousand get-well-soon cards and a lotus flower in times like these where the body and spirit battle for a page in your rhyme book;

 

and a pen that lies mutedly, waiting for your magic fingers to salvage its ink drops.

 

Let these words inject life force (chi) to the ICU IV hypodermics — into your veins.

 

Let these words be murmurs of angels by your star gates, words as sabre swords of the seventh seal.

 

Let these words be chaplets on your halo.

 

Ye, Gothic god!

 

May these words clutch their palms in meditation so that steeples, pedestals and obelisks illuminate their auras as guardians by your clinical chambers.

May these words be the libation to Sekhmet, !Xu, Grannus, He Xiangu, Apollo and Gods of the Nine Chambers, tell them there are verses that remain unwritten. Life left unlived.

May cancer loosen her grip on your young dharma.

I know Spook is in the studio laying a track for your train of thoughts.

 

Here I am, in search of immortality,

composing symphonic hollow flutes as my bribe to karma,

to let my brother smell the scent of immortal flowers again.

 

Brother,

 

you will bloom

you will bloom

you will bloom!

 

Get whole soon.

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