It was written that night would grow teeth
unfriendly to mortals and suck their blood.
What would be left the prophet calls dust.
I read: when it touches the ground, it’d blend with it.
What is memory if not a symphony of circumspect?
I cut the page of the scripture where it was written,
and fisted it in my left palm for reminder sake.
Tobi said he did so. But he didn’t survive his last walk.
Nights are dangerous these days than den of lions.
I’ve lost more than a friend to the night I can’t query.
Is it the kind of night you want me to walk?
Needless to write about sightless shrapnel
that hit Tomi on a broad daylight.
Imagine what the night here holds for a bird
(not owl) walking the night of shades like ghost.