Interface Poem by Tosin Abegunde

Interface

In this mystical phase I roam
Like myth of building the Rome,
I'm stranded; holed-up; no home.

This mystery I struggle to unravel
In painless agonies that baffle
Like the hanged man in the chapel
Who, always, the 'saints' jettison.

Every tear has its own reason
As every smile its own season
If then there is time for everything
Like the wall-hand-lettering
As seen by those blood letting,
Then I ask what then is time?

Does it have the links that rhyme,
Even to the conscience of a crime?

And if time is a pass-age,
What will be the pass and its age?
When and where is its stage?

Who has found a good pass,
Finds a good thing that no one dares trespass,
Thus forming a structured atlass:
A village of curtailed antecedent
Where an unaccented incident
Procreates the horror of an intent.

Power s/he obtains for a change,
Perhaps to keep flowing in rage
Without the knowledge to cage:
Those would be contaminables
That are seen as inflamables
And prone to ferment troubles.

Who really leads the tomorrow,
Awaited like th' flight of a sparrow
In this game of god-of-the-arrow?

This concern makes me mad mend
Like a mad man chasing the wind,
To no avail but a devastated mind.

At the end of this game, it sobers
That, king; queen; pawn; soldiers
Without any gongs and reminders
All in one box shall willin'ly return.

Counting; registering; and in turn
Which no man can shun or fern.

What then is our life, I ask?
A play of passion mixed with task,
Or realities beclouded by a mask?