I have written this poem to remind you of the raft of burden
Floating upon that deep ocean of that little girl’s heart
Whose eyes you see sunk in a hollow tunnel
That Alice tumbled in; wonderland
No wonder the land that fed her, stole her carved innocence
stained her in crimson red
And her housed cages no longer expand
to the rhythmic thumps from within her bare chest
Her miniature drumstick fingers that never played
On the drums of exciting childish moments
Her feet that never walked the length and breadth of playtime,
but of over-sized baggy eyes that hung loose around her frail waistline
You may have stumbled across her in one of your way out
at school, at church or in front of her family house
That harbored foxes and hounds lurking around her brightness
Your eyes may have caught hers, those hollow eyes
Without you knowing she is Uncle’s favorite niece; his lollipop holder
her sweet master
I mean, her Mama did a good job telling her how to serve an elder
“Do everything, don’t complain, Uncle is the breadwinner”
See, aside from life’s battery on her already plucked petal
She has learnt to love the sweets that the ‘Uncle’ next door offers her
Her love for brown sugar lollipops slowly rising to the top
floating on her complacent conscience
Her mouth is sealed for fear of tormenting reeling pictures
That pulled at her blooming flower, just when she wasn’t ready for harvest season
For this reason, her cold nights began raising giant walls
Her tears trickled in a single flow, embracing Antarctica’s coldest offering
Her thoughts froze at the thirteenth hour of that young evening
By the side of the room, those blood-shot ogogoro eyes never left her side
Those crooked fingers hurried her zipper
Her echoing plea muffled by the wailing voices in that music box; a forceful communion
that very moment shook the foundation of her already torn heart
Her thoughts quickly bolted to Mama’s great advice
“Do everything, don’t complain, Uncle is the breadwinner”
Everything on fast track, her innocence seared
Leaving a bitter taste on the tongue of her present
I have written this poem to remind you
Of the many girls whose blooming flowers were plucked
Still being plucked and locked up in the dungeons of their consciences
