Posted by: Ron DuBour | August 23, 2016

THE LITERATURE ~by Tukur Loba Ridwan




When love is not literature
As if poetry, drama or prose,
Where the life lent to the hearts
Fails to pump them into survival
For so long in a world full of lives
Sneaking out of these hearts
Roaming to find home elsewhere
Between the sheets
Full of luxurious graves
Of ephemeral sensation.
Love could be science
As in the test of nature
Or in the scopes of humanity,
Where the life given to these hearts
Has to be tested and replicated
In other areas of application
Aside the hearts, for love has
Scopes and limitations
That they may fail to reach
The brains when they should.
But we ignore these
Sciences, and we keep
Writing our hearts
On stones, not sands,
Calling the head insane
When it knocks by the walls within,
For the joy and tingles and chills
The heart instills in our spines
To have those words live
Beyond our span and space
On this stuffy earth
With these sweetening wishes
And fantasies, like literatures.
Little wonder, why the engine
In our head over-heats
In pensive soberness
When we turn deaf ears
As it speaks and speaks
To deaf hearings
Because it could not entice us
With what the heart has aplenty.
And we forget, that with the generosity
Of the heart comes a price.
These lines do not know what the price
Looks like, but they know what is lost
When we do not repay the mercy
Of the heart when it gives aplenty.
I do not know who is not guilty
Of this, but the literature keeps
Writing itself the same way.

O’real © 2016.

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