Re-Collection
by Kola Tubosun

Days roll by
Hours filter in stumbling multiples.


On I look, frail I stand.
        Songs, melodies, noise from tall, framed cartons
        Shoot within rough colours and distant harmony.


Checkered boards
Punctured roofs


Tales sweep me on foundered dream bands
        Noise rumbles and drop claps of acid rain
        frown and pierce beyond tempered groans


'Get rich, or die trying';
Fool again, I lie on hope's melting platter.


Jumping down now from a battled, worried stake,
I pinch me now, do I dream or wake?