Songs of Anisha
Part with grief, another for fear.
I wish to be moulded again.
“Tic-Tic,”
by Adetuyi Adetola
The harshness of the henchman
falls as that of water droplets.
The default man looks artless
as though in a witness box without a stool,
his forasche akin to poverty.
The brain ticks like a clock,
tic-tic,
tic-tic.
Drops of tics
make an ocean of lost tics.
They say the metamorphosis of your dream
does not take a tic.
It takes an incruental mixture,
the results, they say, tells a lot.
The brain moves in a box,
It’s increasing speed,
scares the autonomic nervous system.
The henchman falls out of the crowd.
Pending judgment; they say,
when your tic-tic, tic-tic
overflows its cup.
Your spotless speed to that side
depends on your results.
A book is opened.
The default man looks aloud.
It strengthens your endurance
to give a fanciful delightful detail
of you tic-tic, tic-tic.
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