I planted love, harvested pain. Sought happiness, found grief. It was my fault; vain optimist I am. Love doesn’t begat love much the same way as life naturally births death.
Oh! I miss the comfort of the illusion.
A lion will eat the goat even if the goat had been righteous and just all its life. Who are we to dare to love completely and not expect fangs, spiked fingers on our exposed yet beating hearts? The love of mankind got the Christ thorns for a crown and nails on his limbs. Who are we to trust in dust creatures?
Though I am cast away, marooned in an island bereft of the chirps of birds, I feel no hate. Only this love. This irritating folly of the weak. I stare up at the sky in my desolation and witness the laughter of the constellations at my misery. They perhaps wonder why I cling to what is long gone, why I crave servitude when I’ve been given my freedom.
I have become smeagol enamored with the jewel that feasts on my soul, that has me shrinked and maddened with what to do. The cousins speak through me ~ love and hate, one purrs whilst the other hurls curses. They both wish her evil. They both want her back and they hold me to ransom, I feel nothing and everything. I go awhoring, binges but the emptiness deepens.
How did I do this to myself? Sisyphus had a better task than I, for I am condemned by my own self. I try to row a raft out of the Styx; out of my misery but the winds throw me back to my island. I try to swim across and away but the sea regurgitates me. I lay on the beach the furious sun over me till salt crystals appear on my exposed flesh.
Nobody cares, so till I find my fathers I will keep hope in my face and nothing in my heart. For I’ve been loyal to a lost cause, cowardice becoming devotion and weakness my sacrifice to Igbe-r’edjo that accepts my affection and bathes me with pain.