In tinctures of nebulous
a melancholic night descends
upon the old yam barn.
Cottony clouds unfold
in whips of mottled drops
upon the ruins of innocence.
Frozen memories in frames, still
lay about on orotund walls
hanging limply beneath opalescent ceilings.
a grandiloquent sanctuary
muzzled in a jinxed maze
truckles within the old yam barn.
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I couldn’t find an image to depict the exact image I have in my head. But I think I could explain it somewhat. The way a yam barn is run, there is always need to push the tubers that are prone to getting bad earlier and so the farmer is always faced with having to pass judgement on every tuber that is chosen for the market. I likened it to a courtroom, where the judge is faced with the tough choice of choosing people the society have something against “or prone to being the bad tubers in the society”. That’s no easy task, should you ask for my opinion. Mistakes could be grave both ways.
It’s the same with decisions we have to make daily. Happy reading.