The Injurious Mood Poem by Muideen Lanre Dauda

This house is a baker's oven;
Even I'm the cake inside the tin-
Whilst difficult for the breath to be taken often,
As the words stink like dead body
When slump furiously gathers around throat like tangle-web
And mind only feels the tragedy
Culls out of irrational anecdote
Giving by the tension of the unweathering climate,
Living desire to razens with the fire of tumultuous stampede
When the oil of thought pours into flame of daze

Although the heart still counts million hopes
Through the smart soul so fasten like palm-rope to palm tree,
Is God still in His Kingdom?
Yes I heard from stillbirth when it safely returned-

Yes! I will pluck the stars from the sky's tree
And bring moon to the rigde of my roof