In the world of people,
A place where books are,
Read by the readers and ,
Words are spoken by,
The born with noisy feelings,
In their minds,
A place where,
You can’t share your secret,
Your second world shall be,
Secreted like urine behind,
Your back.
A place to find solace in,
Termite bites under the cool,
Muarubaine,or just beside
A rock by the river stream,
Than condensing in wools,
Imagine embracing the whole night,
The tail of wolfs in the name of,
I made it.
Here in the village in our arms,
Where you are not aware of,
The friend crying out for help,
Screaming on top his voice,
Cursing, moaning and lamenting,
One who’s hands have been tied,
At back like a prisoner of death,
A friend who you call a friend,
Indeed but not one when in need,
With your phone glaring light,
Of different colours in your eyes,
You’ll be first to watch a big ass,
And the kind of dress hiding,
Pleasure deep down.
Maybe it’s the time I’ll draw,
And paint a new place,
Far away from my hood,
One far away from my friends,
Not close to my fry ends,
And be closer to my enemies,
For they are in me ice.
©joweda
The African son
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