Read Time:5 Minute, 16 Second
PROBABILITY (1st Prize)
We are the two sides of a coin
but unsure of the side that grits the ground
in music brewed with morrows.
This city is a dice
and we are people of shades like a dice too.
We are life, and life is a dice, so we throw our body
to the wind for the ground to decide our fate of numbers:
That we harbour pains in our fingers
doesn’t mean we are dirty or that a win won’t rip it off
into fire later, never mind if it’s a one now;
that we find it difficult to count orphans
wanting a feel of home in their tears
doesn’t mean we’ll father silences on our tongues
for the rest of our lives,
never mind if this city gives you a two now;
that we slip thru oil into a ditch of our gone shadow
doesn’t mean we won’t still fill it with the stories
designing our palms with tragedies,
never mind if it’s a five now, but
do you now see how time changes yesterday?
Hope is the cloth of the mind.
That we walk in a dark room
wanting the touch of a nova
in our passing smiles
doesn’t mean we won’t still be a home
with curtains of calm shadows,
never mind if it’s a three this time,
we just have to throw again
cos the space we leave for doubts
may be the only time left to breathe in this city of fluttering songs;
that elders plant promises that never sprout abundance
but the flag of our hunger in fine colours
doesn’t mean we won’t be a garden
fluttering our blossoming desires
when we throw fertile thoughts like a dice, like this city,
never mind if it’s a four now
for we just have to keep clothing our mind with roses
cos zero is never a number on what we throw,
cos it’s never a number of this city,
for who knows if the wind will add our smiles
and result to six when we toss our face
with hopes that loop the heart with fine morrows?
by Mesioye Johnson Affable
