This poem carrying my pieces isn't just for me,
Memories are archives of aged moments, cognitive videos & portraits.
 
How do I name myself a dove with these
broken wings? How do I count on time, in this 
place, 
 
when it's a mirror that's not needed to view
the thing around our wrist?
 
I was prepared on that day to return my griefs to God in prayers
by 12 pm at the dot; that's when the pastors say the distance
from Earth to heaven is shortened, 
 
No demon could easily assemble an armour to block our orison from reaching God
within the kind of little space that midnight allows, 
 
Not even Satan could squeeze
himself
Into engulfing our prayers within such
little distance.
 
I parted my burdens into the soliciting books of
Psalms,
folded my tongue into a pocket to carry them
& hurried my sullen body to the church before
11:45 Pm.
 
When I bumped into the church, ready to litter my worries on the feet of God,
I saw many other broken bodies like me,
we all waited together by lingering praises & worships on our lips,
but the pastor never joined us till it was exactly
1:25 Am.
 
He prayed with us. He prayed for us, but I wasn't just satisfied,
'cause I felt my own prayers were trapped
somewhere
between Heaven and Earth as usual.
 
I turned to the nearest person beside me
& asked;
"but why didn't he start the prayers by 12:00 Am
like he said earlier?"
He told me; "that's African time for you."
 
I left the church, carried my griefs as drafts waiting for the touch of a messiah.
This is what you do at the sight of an endless ocean
'cause
you don't have one at the back of your father's house.

Biography:
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan is an emerging writer from Ebonyi state, Nigeria. He’s a penultimate medical laboratory science student who explores medicine in the day and worships literature at night. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals; both online and printed. He was the winner of 2018, FUNAI CREW Literary Contest.