with your hands in your pockets,
you walked into the room and the lights went off.
“you’ve come on your own accord!”
a voice roared and the doors locked behind you.
“on your knees!”
another voice ordered.
you knelt and closed your eyes as Mozart’s
requiem in D minor embraced the room.
those rules read to your hearing
knocked off the air you once breathed,
the tales that taught you magic,
the wands you dreamt to usurp,
the taste of wines that built your bonds;
that night, you drank a new wine served
in a skull with sauce.
a new bond was born.
each vow was sealed with a thumbprint
in a basket of torn papers and spilt inks.
you opened your eyes and the requiem
resumed; nothing remained the same.
in the midst of those who formed that arc,
your new self came on a tray of books and pens.
you became a slave to every written word.
when you left the room, tales hung over your head
and followed you everywhere; you must be a writer.
Image by Raymond Depardon (1984) Via manufactoriel
About the author:
Echezonachukwu Nduka is a Nigerian musicologist who writes poetry, short fiction and essays. His works have appeared in reputable literary journals and poetry anthologies within and outside Nigeria. He is currently a Postgraduate Research Music student in Kingston University London, UK.