When the clock rings alarming alarms

Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi


The alarm of a new day on the face of the sun is
like a new flip to the back of a sheet our soul tapered
on its edges, and we are left with irregular lumps of pain
graffiti on the new sheet to remind us of the last. But it’s

still like flakes, worth seeing, worthy enough to pump
alongside our hearts; pain is painted on the inside but
your cheeks abstaining from grief so the sunset can reflect
on it at, another 24 hours gone. Another alarming
24 hours alarmed to the face of the glowing sun, alarming

alarmed its face shimmering remembrance, remembrance
to be the glow in the darkness of grief, not its candle
alarming alarmed that there is an eye in the dust our hook
of a body fit into like the suns get buried under the clouds
gratify returning bodies, our past prints in this tunnel of the earth

like the sun we grow to see again the flaws of it through
the telescope we invented from the lens of our inside out
to see how fast we are running from what we are becoming,
alarming alarms like cries of a landing bomb in lies
planted on the bow of my ribs.