By the last jingle of the mourning bells
by the first rap on hell’s gate …
Will I, a man speak of my shame?
Will I not my troubles wish to fade?
As the stairs of heaven has no cascade,
so has the tears of my fears dry out with age.
Shall our screams of mercy still in biers live?
Shall the obsolete fire of triumph still in its closet breathe?

On the grave of our toil, still do our sorrows dine.
The cold pot of anger, he wishes not to boil.
Only, nature’s stinging arrow of understanding,
has no business with the tyrant notwithstanding.
Stuck in the traffic of confusion,
princely adorned in frustration robes,
laced impeccably for dumpster shoes
on Ravens wings escapes the strife.
Frivolous symphonies from the forest’s pipe,
yet his practice forbids the body’s might.

Immaculate garbage on royal chairs
pens refuse to cringe,
satires best lain on strings
dirges, life’s concert composes
surgeons’ spark seeks sinister syringes.
So porous is deceits pitch,
modesty would not volunteer to be the snitch.
No sport; more goals
more answers; no questions
nice teachers tend towards thundering temptations.
Forgetfulness heists away adolescent wisdom
miraculous stamps on prayers
endless emphasis embedded on supplications
while succulent slumbers seduces sore soles
enticed by the wiles of defeat;
to steal the honour in victory.

Written by: Soul-o’man Drapman
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson

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