We, the bleaters scream pain
The substance of our verity
Outshines our lucidness
What little pride we flaunt
A vicious cycle of our chicanery
Of untethered flowers
Now festering smell
And we want out
We ran, helter skelter
Screaming solution
Applying pollution
Dying before we gave birth
As our decomposed rump
Elevates us to
A seething crowd of fools
The most exalted empty barrels
Seeking, desiring
Verdant lands of only pleasures
The eventual wisdom of our pervading idleness
If only we’d ruminate unto decency
As bald as a coot
Seatless in a charnel-house
We need the chiaroscuro
Of a savant’s resuscitating skill
Listen to his mellifluous voice
Not discrete to his service
A balm for our pains?
A soothing for our healing?
We have not decide
Our patience is not
Endearing; just imposed
By flimsies undeterred.
-Emmanuel E. Ajanah
