Exit Wound

the meniscus of yesteryear
refuses to let go of my emotions
unexpectedly, time becomes a journal
her one hand, a writing feather
melting our experiences into bars,
figurative language, and the second,
a shovel burying seeds into the
rich darkness within my chest
it’s the heartbeat that tells the
the truth of how I feel when i
begin to reflect on the events
when the seeds begin to germinate
and allow for weed to take root
these flowers grow thorns,
and the thorns would take their turn.

Victor Oyedele