What becomes man when art is lost!

The corncob has a moralist sanctuary pumped in their ventricles as a seeping moon appearing on the dimensionless sky. The acute remarks of looking for the veins which the corn holds and the hands they grip firmly on. This sourceless medium can be soughted out when the opaque sky is whipped by the mouth of jasmine-words, a great penetration is attained on vulva of the eternal abode. What becomes man when art is lost! The whereabouts of supply that nourished the soul, and paints the spirit of depressed heart to surge self in laughter. Beyond the sill of window pane I have stand waiting for the sunless rays of my soul to have a cornice of successive praises to my maker. Each time this art is done I found the art that makes me a man. The parody of life, gets exhaustive in me and I seek always the renewal of this painting as a breathe in me. There are dozen of thoughts jutting in me, and ordering the enduring contentment of sound of the night and briskly of a new day. I sighed often when the curtains of a new day unveils the opaque sky to visit my roof first, I can see the sun in the art of becoming a living everyday. Men cannot do without art and art without men weeping songs became peculiar everyday.
(c) Martin Ijir 2020

The merchant

We have travel from shop to shop seeking for what holds breathing in human’s nostril. Each shop we visited stalls our conversation with groceries, butter, tuna fish and fired spreading meat. Always the can milk stared at me whenever I stepped to a shop. The glance at her eyes invites patronage like a whore showing the lameness of her beauty. I hated each ounce of the milk that trudge the premises of thinking. The long rigasa train where banditry sleeps waiting for merchants to kidnap, stood at the dim night as we speed pass. I held the rails tightly, for I have heard of the tempting water of those kidnappers, and wish not to be their honoured victim. For I am only a merchant seeking the house that helds countless breathe. Something inside me whispered, let go off your hands from the rails. And see the dynamic of an invisible shop waiting your arrival! There you would have answers to your cajoling question. Foolishly, I let go the rails. For I love the words in obey and command. I am left sobbing in bruised excitement and tapping drops of breath gaping behind my soul. Truly, this impracticable journey consumed whoever voyage her path calmly. I can’t be dead, I say…
(c)2020 Martin Ijir