After The Armistice Poem by Success Akpojotor

Fraught with a warmness that feels
like actus reus and Germaness, I'm
yet to salute news from Bolton my
overlord, not even smell the ink from
his quill. Erst, I relished the raptus
of his dab. Twice, a charred brittle
billet stained with jots of blood I re-
ceived. Thrice, he ordered that I be
patriotic and manifold the dwindling
phallic pleb. But, no, I wait, this day
and am happy for the reality of this
truce because I long for my master's
vox which I've made out in my every
sopor: a languor in which he couldn't
take chances -'multiply the fading
'lad race' -resounded in my lips
smirched with water from his well -
'call me Bolton' -he fondled my
caput -'but increase the boy race
'and only then shall I show my face
'and we will escape after the truce.'

From Alsace-Lorraine, we shall go like lightning
after I've healed your sore with a kiss from my
negroid lips. We must elude this plain like gypsies
in crepuscular light otherwise we'll become edible
bones for golden grubs because our names are
inscribed on the diary of the German Prince who
parrots our moral weakness to the gods of vengeance.
Neither are we safe back home under the crown who
deems our anaclisis the antonym of loyalty.

Your apparitions kept me kicking and
fighting. My face and humility would've
been medicines to your maimed os and stricken
vessels. But, the war was what kept me alive and
determined. The war was the hope of you. I feared,
for after the armistice, I couldn't be true to myself and
you. Mayhap, I pondered, we should be mesmerised so
we can turn away from badness -this moral weakness.

It was the 11th hour of the 11th rotation of the 11th moon of
the 19th revolution of the 20th centuplicate when you handled
my refusal note which you carry everywhere like gypsy medicine.
Idris, you call me kindred soul, for no overlord feels warmth
in his valet's embrace. No equerry knows the language of his
lord's lower limb.