The blogger ibikunle Abraham Laniyan a poet provides the critical rendition for this wonderful piece Of poetry with Collections Of other fifty poems below.Enjoy the reading.
The Chromatic Refusal
The glass of a spent hour,
where crimson bleeds its geometry
into a silent, curdled sphere.
A paper boat, a folded lung,
flutters its single eyelid
across the unwatered plain.
We wore the masks of other peoples’ mirrors,
and the echo of their smiles
became the static in our teeth.
The architecture of forgetting
erects its own invisible scaffolds,
and we climb without a sun.
The lexicon is a broken compass.
Each syllable, a lost pin.
A city sleeps in the throat of a wren,
while the parallel streets forget
the reason for their alignment.
The Scaffolding of Absence
An open field where only shadows bloom.
The scent of non-existence, a green rust.
The clock's hands, in their frantic spiral,
etch the unmapped coastline of what never was.
The furniture of your memory,
a polished void.
I run my hand across its grain,
a tactile silence.
A telephone rings in a sealed room,
and the dust settles like a pact.
The sky, a blueprint for a structure
that cannot be built.
We draw the lines of a missing cage,
and the bird inside sings its own
architectural sorrow.
The Treatise on Smoke
The smoke has an adverbial syntax,
a syntax of departure.
It never arrives at the noun.
We watched its grammar undo itself,
a sentence losing its meaning
at the edge of the roof.
The rain is a translation
of a forgotten language,
but we read it in our native tongues.
The pages are soaked and illegible.
The narrative, a ghost in the gutter.
The Geometry of Aphasia
A rusted alphabet sings from the silo,
each letter a different grain of quiet.
We draw the blueprints of a lost harvest,
our hands forgetting the shape of the plough.
The well is full of misremembered water.
The glassblower’s breath,
a translucent heresy against a fixed form,
refuses the bottle, prefers the air.
And the echo of a dropped cup
rearranges the furniture of the moment.
The grammar of this light is a fracture.
We learn the syntax of the splintered prism,
and call the new color by a forgotten name.
Inhabitation of a Glitch
The house was built on a temporal fault line.
Breakfast is served backwards,
the last mouthful a promise of raw egg.
We sleep in the static of a channel-searched-for,
where the ghost of a sitcom laughs and disappears.
The walls have grown soft with repetition,
the wallpaper a collage of yesterday's newsprint.
Your face, in the window,
is an artifact of a higher resolution,
but the wind is a corrupting algorithm.
All windows face inward now,
reflecting a storm that is only ours,
a flickering of code against the pane.
The future arrives pixelated,
and we learn to love the mosaic of its missing data.
The Catalog of Non-Existence
A library of blank pages,
indexed by the scent of things that are gone.
We find the chapter on the color of your voice,
and feel the weight of its missing narrative.
The sculptor carves the inverse of the statue,
leaving a hole in the shape of a missing thing.
The negative space learns its own geometry,
and casts a more perfect, more present shadow.
Each breath, a cancelled telegram.
The message was important, but the receiver
was built from the same dust as the forgetting.
The story we carry is a map of a place
that never was, but is all we have left.
Cartography of the Unmappable
The geometer of absence draws a line,
not between two points, but away from all of them.
The compass needle, a ghost in the hand,
quivers towards the cardinal sin of nothing.
A coastline of forgetting,
etched in the salt of a forgotten tear.
The tides reverse their logic,
pulling land from sea,
and the gulls’ cries are a lesson in geometry
that we no longer remember.
We sleep with the charts folded,
the creases holding a geography of what might be.
In the morning, the map is a new skin
and the old country is a phantom limb.
The Taxonomy of Rust
Rust has a memory,
a catalog of rain, of wind, of neglect.
Each flake is a word for a history
that has failed to be written.
The train tracks, a sentence without punctuation,
run towards a horizon of pure inference.
The wind, an orator of the unspeakable,
speaks the language of erosion.
The key turns in the lock of a non-existent door,
and the tumblers fall into a pattern
of a language we have almost,
but not quite, forgotten.
The Specter of the Anachronism
The photograph is of a future that never was.
The faces smile with a joy that has yet to be invented.
We hold it up to the light of a fading present,
and watch the corners curl into a question mark.
The old men in the park play chess with stones,
each move a reversal of a move not made.
The children chase a ball of pure theory,
its bounce a sound no one can truly hear.
The ghost is a paradox. It arrives not from the past,
but from a future that has chosen not to exist.
It rattles not with chains, but with the quiet hum
of all the technology that never was built.
It whispers the last words of a sentence
1. The Almanac of Silence
The calendar pages are made of air.
The months unspool into an un-year,
and the clokface has forgotten its geometry.
The birds build nests of stolen syntax,
and the wind is a thief of whispers.
We trade in metaphors of the unheard.
2. The Unstitched Fabric
The tapestry was never woven.
The loom is a ghost in the parlor,
its threads unraveling into a blueprint for absence.
The figures were promised, but never appeared,
and the colors were lost in the dye-vat of forgetting.
3. The Negative Portrait
The painting is not of a person,
but of the air that surrounded them.
The absence is a positive space,
and we recognize the outline of the hollow,
a precise, familiar lack.
The crack in the cup is a river
with a single, unmovable bank.
We measure its geography
with the calipers of lost time,
and learn the names of its tributaries.
5. The Architecture of Forgetting (II)
The blueprints are drawn in disappearing ink.
Each line is a promise of a future
that has chosen not to exist.
The foundation is built on a memory
that collapses as it is recalled.
6. The Glass of a Spent Hour (II)
The shards are vowels,
the syllables of a broken sound.
We piece them together,
but the word has changed its meaning,
and the message is the absence of its sender.
7. The Treatise on Smoke (II)
The smoke is a grammar of refusal.
It rises from the pyre of language,
a negation in the shape of a cloud.
Its meaning is found in the ashes
and the words that were not spoken.
8. The Scaffolding of Absence (II)
The skeleton is a map of a missing house.
We walk its empty rooms,
tracing the hallways of what might have been.
The dust of a forgotten echo settles,
and the floorboards remember a step
that was never taken.
9. The Chromatic Refusal (II)
The color has a hollow center.
We look into its heart and see
the pastels of a canceled sunrise.
The pigment was mixed with a silence
that refuses to be painted.
10. The Inhabitation of a Glitch (II)
The window is a mirror of a different time.
We see our reflections, but they are not our own,
the ghost of a future self, unbidden,
looking back from a screen of fractured glass.
11. The Catalog of Non-Existence (II)
The library has been cataloged by its dust.
Each grain holds the weight of a forgotten story.
The books are blank, but their titles
sing a lexicon of what we have lost.
12. The Geometer of Absence (II)
The line is drawn not with ink, but with a finger,
on a pane of freezing air.
The point is a ghost in the geometry,
a place where nothing can ever begin.
13. The Taxonomy of Rust (II)
The rust is a history of entropy.
The molecules remember a different form,
a strength that has been forgotten.
The color is a memory of a time
when iron was a promise, not a wound.
14. The Specter of the Anachronism (II)
15. The Chronosophy of a Stain
The stain is a time traveler.
It arrives from a future of spilt things,
a premature memento of an accident.
It marks the linen with a premonition,
a color of what has yet to be.
16. The Calculus of Dust
The dust motes are planets
in a cosmology of inertia.
Each fleck holds the gravity
of a lost moment, a forgotten sun.
We breathe in this miniature universe,
and it settles in the lungs, a quiet history.
17. The Lexicon of the Unspoken
The words that were not spoken
have their own grammar, their own rhythm.
They fall into the gutters of conversation,
a quiet, ignored torrent.
We are deafened by their silence.
18. The Ontology of a Whisper
A whisper has no body.
It is a ghost of a sound,
a verb without a noun.
It travels through the air,
a message that only exists
in the moment of its dissolving.
19. The Cartography of the Inaudible
We draw maps of the silent territories,
the landscapes of the unheard.
The mountains are the quiet sighs of the earth,
and the rivers are the streams of unwept tears.
We navigate by the absence of sound.
20. The Metaphysics of a Key
The key is a question.
It asks for a lock that may not exist.
We hold it in our hands, a promise
of a door that was never built.
Its weight is the burden of possibility.
21. The Grammar of a Shadow
The shadow is a pronoun,
referring to a thing that is not there.
It moves with a borrowed momentum,
a parasitic dance on the periphery of light.
22. The Geometry of a Scar
The scar is a map of a wound that has healed.
The lines are the roads of a remembered pain.
We trace its topography with a finger,
and read the story of a violence
that has become a quiet geography.
23. The Phenomenology of a Tear
A tear is a conversation with gravity.
It holds the weight of a emotion,
a drop of liquid syntax.
It falls to the ground, a period
at the end of a forgotten sentence.
24. The Calculus of a Glance
25. The Ontology of a Knock
A knock is a question that has already been asked.
The door holds the memory of its answer,
the wood remembering the concussion.
We stand outside, in the vestibule of conjecture,
and listen to the echo of the refusal.
26. The Taxonomy of a Sigh
A sigh is a punctuation mark for the unsaid.
It holds the weight of a sentence
that was too heavy to be spoken.
It is the white space on the page,
the breath that holds the story.
27. The Lexicon of a Gesture
A gesture is a word that has lost its sound.
The hand moves in a choreography of meaning,
a silent argument with the air.
We interpret the vocabulary of its movement,
but the dictionary is in a foreign language.
28. The Metaphysics of a Reflection
A reflection is a conversation with a ghost.
It speaks in the language of light,
a replica of a thing that is not there.
We look into the water, and see a parallel self,
living in a quiet, impossible country.
29. The Geometry of a Broken Bowl
The pieces are a constellation
of a past function.
We hold the fragments in our hands,
and the shape of the missing whole
is a ghost in the negative space.
30. The Cartography of a Dream
The maps of our dreams are drawn in shifting sand.
The landmarks are fluid, the rivers are memories.
We wake with the geography of a lost country
in our minds, and a compass of disorientation.
31. The Taxonomy of a Wound
A wound is a new geography on the body.
The tissue is the language of a healed violence.
We read the lines of the scar,
the history of a moment of unraveling.
32. The Chronosophy of a Tear (II)
A tear is a drop of a different time.
It holds the weight of a grief that has already passed.
We catch it on a fingertip, a small, wet relic,
a memory in liquid form.
33. The Ontology of a Hiss
A hiss is a sound that has no destination.
It is a message sent to itself,
a closed loop of meaning.
We listen to its sibilance,
and hear the language of a refusal to connect.
34. The Metaphysics of a Stain (II)
A stain is a footprint of a forgotten moment.
It marks the memory of a past spilling.
We stare at its geography, and see the ghosts
of the liquid, the container, the moment.
35. The Calculus of a Sigh (II)
A sigh is an equation of release.
The variables are air, breath, and emotion.
Its solution is a momentary peace,
the answer to a question we never asked.
36. The Grammar of a Glance (II)
A glance is a sudden sentence.
Its subject is a fleeting thought,
its verb, an unspoken action.
Its syntax is a flash of light,
a brief, unreadable message.
37. The Phenomenology of a Key (II)
The key is a promise of an opening.
It holds the potential of a future.
We carry its weight in our pocket,
the small, metal burden of a closed door.
38. The Taxonomy of a Whisper (II)
A whisper is a sentence that has no ending.
It is a sound that has chosen not to arrive.
We follow its trajectory into the air,
and find only the silence of its disappearance.
39. The Cartography of the Unspoken (II)
We draw maps of the conversations we never had.
The streets are named for unspoken words,
the houses are the quiet of missed opportunities.
We are the sole inhabitants of this phantom city.
40. The Calculus of a Knock (II)
A knock is a calculation of a future.
The force, the cadence, the location.
It predicts the opening or the refusal,
the arrival or the turning away.
41. The Metaphysics of a Hiss (II)
A hiss is a language of negation.
It speaks in the vocabulary of emptiness.
We listen to its hollow resonance,
and hear the story of a missing thing.
42. The Grammar of a Reflection (II)
A reflection is a mirror of a verb.
It shows the action without the actor.
We watch its movements, and see a ghost
of a motion, a syntax of a shadow.
43. The Phenomenology of a Stain (III)
A stain is a fossil of a memory.
It holds the shape of a past moment,
the imprint of a liquid violence.
We read its geography, and see the history
of a forgotten spillage.
44. The Taxonomy of a Tear (III)
A tear is a drop of a different gravity.
It falls to the ground, a small, wet punctuation.
Its weight is the final word of a sentence
we no longer remember.
45. The Calculus of a Whisper (III)
A whisper is an unproven equation.
It speaks in the variables of air and breath.
Its solution is the silence that follows,
the quiet after the unsaid.
46. The Ontology of a Glance (III)
A glance is a moment of pure inference.
It holds the history of a thought,
the blueprint of a future action.
Its meaning is found in the stillness
of the moment that follows.
47. The Metaphysics of a Knock (III)
A knock is a question that is already answered.
The door holds the echo of the refusal,
the wood remembering the impact.
We stand outside, in the vestibule of silence.
48. The Grammar of a Hiss (III)
A hiss is a verb of denial.
It speaks in the tense of a future that never was.
We listen to its quiet, sibilant sound,
the language of a negative space.
49. The Phenomenology of a Reflection (III)
A reflection is a ghost of a conversation.
It speaks in the language of light,
a replica of a thing that has left.
We look into the water, and see a final word,
the quiet of a completed thought.
50. The Taxonomy of a Stain (IV)
A stain is a memory of a time.
The geography is the language of a past moment,
the history of a forgotten emotion.
We trace its edges with a finger,
and read the final chapter of a forgotten story.
4. The Taxonomy of a Fissure
The ghost is a photograph of a future
that was deliberately avoided.
It haunts the alleyways of lost opportunities,
a silent, monochrome regret.
A glance is a sudden, unreadable equation.
We catch it on the corner of an eye,
a flash of unknown variables.
Its solution is the history of a thought,
and we can never solve for the answer.
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