[This was rejected by three Christian journals. I was so so surprised. Let your eyes be the torches of honesty to judge its real worth]
There would be the book of Genesis
Like the story of Adam or Eve in Eden
The beginning of many, push-starts and combustion engines,
The locomotion and the carriages that follow.
How one day Abraham met Sarah
And started a race. Making love.
Then there would be Exodus
How the flesh left the child, the bud on the pinnacle,
And how the adult bloomed, the butterfly
That made the long mile through a cocoon wall
To find his Canaan, the promise land.
There would be the book of Numbers
The conquests, the procrastination, the rejections, the exes
And the one that never fades or drowns
The moon above the constellations
The heir to the many pretenders
The rugged hull afloat on your waters.
Then you will find the book of Pslams
The songs of ritual, need and ecstasy. The chains of lust
And the exoneration of love. Songs of the ungodly hours
The unyielding passion and the fecund floors
That make flowerbeds bloom
With summer magnolias.
Then you’ll bow to the book of Proverbs
How love conquers all, except her limits.
How once bitten is twice shy. When the echo of the past
Is louder than the fear of jumping to chemistries,
Bond formations and shared covalences.
And you finish with the book of Malachi
The pages from messengers. When at the final frontier,
You find life’s mandatory solitude. The absence of even soul.
When a long sentence reaches a full stop.
And what you will remember then, is who you loved,
And who loved you back. The messengers in your body.
The mind that makes the knowledge cherry, a wisdom apple.
And the heart that makes an apple – to the eye – , sweet cider.
And every book is beautiful
From cover to cover. Still, It’s not about how you follow
The scripture, but how you write your own,
Your own testimonies, to feed your echo to billions
Who will grow their own heartbeats.
We are not just bones under tombstones.
We are also bones above.
Fossils of our own inimitable legacies.