Blue is the ceiling; gnarled
This spring that won’t cease to go with a sigh.
I finished work on a new novel yesterday.
Wrote ‘The End’, and that was it
Over and done with,
My lonely sickness arrived seconds later
I call it the Great Depression
I’m now the world’s saddest man.
But I’m not suicidal:
An African is never one.
We’re too worried of what happens to our soul if ever we force ourselves to bite the bullet,
Easy if you’re an American
Hard if you’re from the Motherland.
Still I’ve no choice but to ride
This depression train
Ride it till it let’s me off.
In a day or two
Maybe even hours from now,
I’ll be back on my feet again
I’ll be writing again,
The lonely sickness will depart
Wait for its next return trip
Next time I get done with another work.