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| Photo by @ikennaogbenta |
Into the wind
thrown caution
by crowns and seals
grey with folly and tricks,
drunk with immunity
the scythe comes thus,
door to door
illegal tenders enfeebled
Scepters wilting
Orville’s engine roar in vain
The thirsty fertile land, sprouted spiky tares
when you left her sumptuous thighs
in quest of side-chicks
why scared to reap your harvest?
Perhaps while others tilled their farms,
you lent your tools to their distant soils
Now you must wallow your farm on nude soles
Harvest, forthwith upon us
How good a green finger you’ve been
is reflective of the tares whose spikes
pierce in lovely style, your desperate soles
