raving voices etched on starchy cards
our enemies sequestered within the rocks
our ranks seeping with fury united by cords
men in black with happy fingers few feet away
their black apparels grimy
brows crumpled by the sun’s rays
eager to please manic masters
will they shift?
will the rock quake are the patterns of our advancing fleet of feet?
will we win? we trudge on
our fury our fiendish appeal
Written by: Emeka Nobis
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.