HYMN TO THE SUN

When we cough coffins explode-
coronets of cadavers-
as Hope extolled our invite,
too cordial it was
when life struck the hard light
on our shadow’s skin.
Bodies blooming in wounds,
slender canals- our pathways to mushrooms,
boiling squirms
when the moss christened you with ringworm.
Only branches glance the sun
as we grow in murderous multiplication;
another other of the numerals;
blank wood drifting in the funerals’ ribbed pyres.
Sliced seraphs sinking,
floating down like burnt paper-
black petals flowing red to equator.
Sipping sorrow, we are drowned in crooked fires,
nailed to degradation for our national stain-
only skeletons remain entire.
Smiling spent shells, your thorn sprouted doubts,
your company of crosses flung about in caskets.
As you erase your race,
harmony’s homicide leaves no trace.
The skies rain rainbows
while we reign red
in a kaleidoscope of corpses instead.
Lives refused- the refuse of the realm-
the broken borders are hemmed by tissues,
eternal issues of our stabbed pride…
Not wanting a vein,
disowning the claim of pulses,
history forgets
that we are all citizens of death.

Copyright © by Akil Thomas