the gate gapes, always hungry—

its teeth are CCTV lenses, rusted wide.

battered souls never

leave a grief poem whole,

their fruits ripened

in pixelated hexes,

scarred by the clouds.

this grief sickles:

Error 404: blood still missing.

they say the bullets were not

made for silence,

for they, too, are

grieving. for the gods,

prefer bullets that sound

like the honest click-clacking

of keyboards on the

temple of a body.

the dead log on as

guest users,

profiles flickering—

Last Active: Lekki, October, 2020.

at 6:43pm,

the streetlights shatter,

each bulb a gasping eye.

the moon cradles

her empty wristwatch,

& the lagoon’s DM holds

nothing but thirst.

mothers kneel to plant VPNs in soil:

proxy flowers bloom

in fire & silence.

 another year arrives,

earth coughs up shell casings,

but the emojis still remain.

we hit delete, it flickers:

ghosts of memory

replaying with each blink.

this is how the gate

opens her mouth:

subscribe to this mourning

because the dead

do not forgive

the place they fell.