He lived alone in a room of trees,
Cocooned by a blanket of leaves.
The sun licked life into his sleepy face,
His tongue sated from a buffet of wild fruits.
The canary created rhythm,
And the robin weaved blues,
While crickets and nightingales,
Strummed melodious lullabies.
The sheets, pen and ink,
Were his lonely friends.
His dream carried his eyes to the mirror,
Of Yesterdecades’ bitter heart.
Pen and fingers murmured in his sleep,
As ink crawled painfully on sheets.
About the horrible they told,
Man’s many troubles, they unveiled.
Outlaws dining with kings,
Knaves merrying with lords,
While patriots are famished,
With a belly full of empty promises.
Greed is a mannequin in the State house,
Clench-fisting communal gold.
Rogues lounge in a penitentiary of praises,
And traitors are compensated,
In the hard currency of encomiums,
While their victims wear indelible welts.
Religion fortified an excuse,
That dogs may eat dogs.
Masquerading in tribal cloaks,
Man kills self, self kills man.
When chiefs are crimson with rage,
They feed their subjects to Wars.
Do medals disinfect pains?
Or wreaths wrestle down bereavement?
As the night breeze takes a cold stroll,
The jungle hermit dozes off.
Before eternity handcuffs him,
His tears scribble audibly.
“Solace is leaping home,
Nemesis is guzzling energy drinks,
Karma is tearing down her mask,
Virile, strong and persistent Messengers,
A certainty with unarguable expectance,
Amidst lunacy and perversion,
In spite of a mad people and berserk world,
Vengeance is sure, retribution is unstoppable”.
Written by: Kunle Omope
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson