I entered the room for a thousandth time
Is this a syndrome of amnesiac I seldom dreaded?
Yet I never forgot the cause for my wandering tour
But no stealthy feet could have filched a golden watch
A heavenly gift from whom I see no more

Can a crook creep through the cranny of this fortress?
Not found, this abode will whiff a stale stench from same sweet aroma
You will weep as you sweep, as your broom sweeps no room
Call the driver! And that old the gardener is doomed
Nothing but a conspiracy for my endless tour

But like Trump’s tale of wheels before walls
I am now lost in the maze, wherever I start again?
Would this be a penance for the raise requested?
An advance on the toil that was never done?
Or just reflections of my many unkept promises?

Alas! it stares at the edge of the very stand I left it the night afore
And spoke in the language I cognize not
As I see you not, you must however have seen me a thousand times
Albeit this is nothing but watchful maneuvers of spirits in the physical
As I already swept the room clean with bare feet

Through Your voyage in time, I now understand that
All who wander are not lost and who ask are in need
For in a small room, we can walk a thousand miles
When the mind embarks on a journey of guilt

Ololade Raji (September 2019)