Vanity Poem by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

The book in which the texts of Vanity exist lies in burrows of a drinking desert. Upon a gazebo we shall point westward, through the mirth of endless zephyr, to retrieve our fleeing, musty skulls. With large memories from sundown, I shall sit on the parapet of heaven’s arch and peer sedulously at our lame dictionaries, just to promote images of Vanity, nursed to ingravescence by a purposeless irony. No wonder sex, which we all stoop low to conquer, high and low, rich and poor, king and pauper, defies proper definition. I shall not refrain from posting it as a blandishment: it’s neither art nor science (any wonder it’s not taught in school!) . It’s only a gift God gave us with his left hand.