written by: Onuegbu Chiamaka
On transit to and from posterity,
I met gluts of muddled victims on the way,
those lives tugged by the collar of their ruffled shirts,
they stank from sheer misery and toppings of victory.
Hard workers toiled till muscles tear,
beggars with outstretched palms,
beg for alms to fill their empty bowls,
all these to feed an empty hollow; stomach.
With a rose-colored glass, I saw nothing,
just the fragments that make up life:
the upright, vile, just, and ignoble things,
I saw them fade away with time.
And I concluded life was a blank book,
our struggles are written on its pages,
& everyone is entitled to more than one chapter,
an Atlas with no mappings. This is nothingness.
Register For This Site
A password will be e-mailed to you.