Sacrarium

And so,

After the hour of epiclesis:

The salient moment of devotion,

Straight flew from the congregation,

Dirt……O! What looked like dirt,

Into the chalice vessel; the cup of nobles,

Nobles initiated by the smearing of unction,

And the blood,

O the blood!

Mind you, not of bullocks or calves,

Got stained and unfit,

The setting of the ‘Collect’ and ‘Doxology’

Becomes intertwined

Making the sacrifice in disorder.

Oh! Why has the church become a wasteland?

Why were the floors unceremonious?

Why are the vessels unwashed

The atmosphere corrupt,

Minds are no more intact,

Prayers are no more in fire,

Episcopal robes are now is vogue

Ecclesia est inimicus----the church is unfriendly.

Neque!

Not the church, but the world.

Who conceives in the church?

Who crowds the church?

Who pontificates in the church?

WE. You- you of course.

When you refuse t give the brotherly huge,

When the sisterly kiss of peace is flushed,

When in the spirit, you think of ‘sisi’ on the street,

When in the sacristy, you slay the spirit

When at ‘altar call’, you murder love,

When on the spiritual road, you 2go,

Then- then, the crucifix of the monastery will weep

And our bible will become ‘facebook.’

Sacrarium

Our lives are like the sacrarium,

Nay! Our lives are the sacrarium.

Once, we are saints,

Twice, its I am saved and I’ve derailed,

Thrice, it’s a game of sons and gentiles,

Whatever it is, we are saints anyway.

In us are grains of filth and sanctity,

Our lives are grazed lands where weeds shoot,

When grazed and grazed; cleared of its mess,

We change to base where we hymn DJ.

What way should we now sail

To neigh the ‘full of grace?’

Reserve the cesspit of the sacrarium

For that which lay beneath can be reconceived

And a new live, a pristine life be born.

Sacrarium,

A sepulcher for un decaying saints.

Life is a game of chess,

You muse earnestly before

Swiftly we wing away

From that perfect path we’ve been placed.

Our minds are like nomads of flocks,

It roams and wanders around diverse thoughts.

NAFDAC my poetic products

Let not the EFCC of rendition dash me,

At the village square,

Where we sit in circles,

At our conclave, where we behest,

Will I decide whether to take the oath of silence,

For speaking is for the lip,

Listening is for the ear,

Beauty is for the eyes

For time isn’t on my side

Till we meet next time.

                                              BABAJIDE literati