By
Okeke Okechi
The Message
In the land fraught
with mediocrity,
Embellished with itching
Palms and knotted
With ferocity,
My head breaks with sickness
My hands freeze like ice.
The waves of penury
In its plenitude
Carried me like a kite
Billowing in the breeze,
I staggered.
Tell me chum:
Am I lost?
Or am I drunk?
Nay, tell my mother,
Away I fly to a farther
land where my head
will be well,
My hands will beat machines.
Tell her doom awaits her
Like the city of Nineveh
Until she awakens
Whence she lay.
The Wind
The wind of obscurity
blew and gathered
infinitesimal pebbles
on frail eyebrows,
blinding them to pass.
Now it smacks its leftwing
relentlessly, to see it pass out,
lashing out and
passing the buck to its former
for its impotence.
That wind we heard
rustling over there,
here it is,
chasing after shadow,
clad in kaftan of change,
dining with bunch
of ten Percenter
to fight ten percent.
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