THE WHOREHOUSE

January 31 2017 , Written by Ofem Ubi Published on #poetry

She dances in the shadows

As darkness is a word her syllabus are all way too familiar with

She’s unstable like the climate

And her forecast is nothing but thunder storms and little degrees of sunshine

She hides behind the tower of her smile like Babel

Her words are night time whispers hoping to be heard in daylight

She tries trimming the cocktail time that tells the tales of her misfortune

And so humans often misconstrue the pathways that led to her deadened destination

She’s a piece of short sleeved happiness

And she stares at the ceiling ceaselessly hoping to count her blessings but all she sees is curses painted in pictures flipping through the gallery of her mind

As she begins to ask those rhetorical questions

Is HE alive?

Does HE see me shed my innocence like second skin and all he does is sit back upstairs and prove sovereignty

Are HIS powers limited to quench the flames of my poverty?

Or am I just another girl with an issue of promiscuity

Is HE too blind to see my fingerprints clogged on the hem of his garment or has HE lost the sense of feeling

Am I an experiment of creation?

Or was I made of second hand materials am I of a sandy soil

Am I just too porous to hold up the blessing he sprinkles on my skin?

Do my cries disguised as moans sound like lullabies to HIM

She asks these questions and she seeks for answers but it seems

It seems like heaven’s gate were shut even before she began asking

As she walks with the tag branded on her skin by the judging eyes of the world

And no one dares to see beyond her make-up and padded backside

The inner being that screams for a helping hand

All she sees is an army of accusing fingers making a roll call of her atrocities like they themselves were without blemish

Like they had the right to cast those stones when the Judge was yet to pass the court order

But then they forget that secret and public wrongs are same size when weighed in the balance of Gods judgment

For earthly scales, judgments and measurements are blinded by bribery and familiarity

And if He Himself was merciful enough to pass bail to her kind in the days of old

Then what gives us heart to hit the maze at the end of the case when we have no wigs on

What happened to the best judgment called LOVE

What happened to prayer, intercession for those whose bones are all too weak to lift their crosses alone?

For love is best shown on bended knees

Love is shown through calls in heaven for the sake of a fallen fellow soldier

Picking the eyes of a soul in struggle isn’t it but guiding him through the dark rough edges of a sword to the light of grace

Love thy neighbor as thy self

For this is the fulfillment of the law

And if we loved without segmenting our degrees of iniquities,

Then maybe we would see that some iniquities were done out of circumstances and could be reversed with the right dosage of love, care, attention and prayers

For love isn’t contempt

Love is a penitent heart on bended knees for the sake of a fallen fellow soldier