The Traces Of Winter On The Rails Of My Lips by Poet Fholarin

Dried and fragile.

like the smoked fishes on one side of the odò-obà

highway,whose moting leathers are displaced by the barbed-tips of some iron-moulded rods conjuring warmth to the fur-like palms of the kaduna fishermen.

When I use my index finger to brace the springs of my lips from falling down to earth in heavenly thud — like the "ikogusi" water falls — the formants on their faces creak like the hinge of an old entrance door singing shrilling lullabies to the eardrums of the hollow wind.

…every morning comes with a pepperish wound inflicted by the unsalubrous caressive touches of winter on 'the rails of my lips' while I superimpose the spelling of "P" — in between the covetous glide that secretes salivas to the lateral region of my tongue.

Gruffly pored;

like the scorched earth — torn apart by the war menace in the barren Sahara in Africa.Saggy as a shaggy hair of a wild writer sagging his vivid pen on the sad cheeks of a white paper.

※fholarin✍🏻🤞🏻