Everything is tired
That is tired
It's what our bones have become
Eaten with might by termites
Nananom themselves warned
This end.
What we'll become
Togbui, Nii, all added a warning
They echoed our life; we said ours is new
They have seen: this thing that is new
They boomed a warning
Themselves.
Cassava-sticks-wrapped-doomed-to-earth
Ourselves.
That flesh.
Our bone a warning to our flesh
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
1 comment:
What have you been thinking, ha?
Your piece is gross and quite paradoxical. And what warning to our flesh -- our bone? Whaaat...
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