He’s getting used to burning his dreams 

To keep warm, and weather the storm.

What it is it is; strange, as to him verses 

Of seemingly lasting unhappiness.

Come and see.

Here on Many Streets Road

Varnished the king-story of his life.

He’s been, by time, drilled to being sad

From being too young.

He’s slaughtered, daily, into stuttering wishes

His lacks and remains are same;

Everyone’s garbage his baggage.

He belongs here – his heritage.

Society does well splashing all of him

Across reasons and seasons.

The media continue to look away,

And no one cares. 

Do you see? 

Like many infected nights, he digs deep

Wailing, forgetting, always, that in his 

Neighbours ears, there is no listening, only

A transpose of deafened and echoing darkness.

Lingering silent hours of tearful thoughts remind 

Him of forthcoming winter punishments, as his 

Disabilities he begins packing together, to begin

Advancing on the lip of hope.

His light remains seized, his life paused.

He is lost, come what may, in finding 

His story, or another, trying

Few Streets Road in his sleep.

On coming remembrance days 

Remember to help find his story, too.

I wish.

I which for him that his life, one day,

Outside of these memories, will begin,

For one of us he is.

I wish for him, tonight, a goodnight.

If you care, you can, too – 

Wish for him…


© Tobi Akiode




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