PARADOX OF TOIL
It was the irony thatslayed him, cutting
deep to the bone-marrow
with thin blades of air
from a windmill,sharp
silent like the
teeth of recession at redundant
In his youth, heate the heart of toil
pads depressing the colourful
landing platforms of petals
ruffled by the breeze
enthusiastically wrangling pot-fulsof nectar,
as they bargained swift
contingencies of arrival.
Faces and hands blacked by
the Viking sun of
In his old age, prey in awidening web strangled by
windmills in a paradox of
buzzing to and fro
for less reward.
Red takes scalps. A dyingbreath,
slowly evaporating, acquires
violent colour.The wounded
stained dark with blood.
His baby son visitsin his mother’s arms.The doctor
barks at her,
fear leaping out of the infant’s
The soldier is screaming. The baby’sred T-shirt is dragging him to a red-fire
hell in convulsive visions.
Red reminds him of the dangerIn the battle-field;
of flame-like bullets flying through
the dark-faced night;
of men with bloodshot eyes
dying of red-lipped wounds
deadlier than vampires’ kisses.
A sunset-coloured flag suffusesa bull’s eye with madness,
the red T-shirt drags the soldier
to the scene of his own death.
Nurses wear white teeth, tocamouflage Doctor’s uniforms of
Agholor Leonard Obiaderi lives in Nigeria. He loves poetry and crime novels though he has no criminal friends. He has been featured as poet of the week in Poetry Super-Highway and Wild Violet Literary Magazine. His poems have been published in Storm Cycle Anthology of Kindofahurricane Press.