Muttering voices

 "She is" The earth is blind. I must say that the earth chose to be blind. Because how can anyone not see how she toils away at her task? Morning, afternoon, and even at night. Was it nature or men that tossed it on her? Because she seems so peaceful in her storm. With the rising sun, she sets out Like the mother hen to search for daily bread. Many said she has a lazy head Who depends on the crumbs from her troubles. While he folds his hands in his chest And makes jest of her with his friends. Morning, afternoon and night She toils away at her task. Hoping and praying that fortune would smile back at her. And ease the weight on her shoulders which weighs heavily on her. She manages to smile through her pains, For daily she has to wear this mask. The hope of a mother is in her labour Like a patient farmer  She sows her seeds at all season She guards it to ensure that none is missing. For everything giving to her by God Both Woes and worth Nothing should be missing Even whe...

 "The Poem and the Poet" I wrote you a poem. Yes, I wrote you a poem It was neither to mourn you Or call you. But to announce my retracing steps back to my shell. Where I once was till your beauty wooed me. I ran leaving my senses aside But bearing burning emotions in my heart. It was tender.  It needed to be tended. But it died in the heat of neglect.

 " Believe Love"  I could sing you a million melodies, Of where our hearts met, Through the rough roads of unrequited love To a place where we sits gracefully on a throne: the thrones of our hearts.  Your face shone through the unwavering shadows, To kill this darkness that held my soul captive. It wasn't freedom at last But freedom that will last through this new found joy to eternity Where we will at last know love without doubts.

" The Long Arm of Love"  In a world wrapped in chaotic darkness Unexplainable to the human mind I will be your sea of tranquil affection Where you can plunge in your mountain of pain  And watch them melt like ice in a bowl of heat. Keeping your eyes on your scars  Are blindfolds to what the future holds Which restrains your feet from climbing the  peak of your dreams So unbolt your stars  And draw a canvas of sparkling lights in the sky.  Yesterday has had its way Let's today have it say While we steer through the darkness With hope as our light.

 " Friday Mourning Prayer" At the wake of dawn, As drowsy bodies were yet to stir their tired whole. They come upon us suddenly, Like hungry swarm of locusts, With machetes, arrows, and guns, Thirsty for blood at no cause, Blinded by the blurry slides of religion and tribalism. They shot sporadically at scampering children, And ripped bare the hearts and tummies of pregnant women. Brave men who dared to resist their savagery With bare arms and sticks were butchered like festive holy rams. Bodies were piled up like heaps of sacrifice to a brute god. This massacre went on till the sun was forced out of hiding By the foul smell of burnt flesh and blood As the perpetrators disappear like the morning mist into their religious huts  To observe their daily prayers.

  "Our Votes will Count" The sugarcoated party slogans and their fattened promises, The lies mingled with a drop of truth and the multiple posters that smear the faces of our streets, The feigned smiles with a generic pose of hope,  The crowd pulling campaigns and the brandishing of the magical party wands, The quickly arranged sombre songs of hope with shameful dance steps to mesmerize the faithfuls, Some standing transfixed in the scorching sun, other swaying their waists and stamping their feet on the dusty ground for paltry wraps of notes While the big men hide in raised platforms smiling broadly. It is the most coveted season, In the life cycle of a state When like a snake it should shed its old skin for a new look. But here the new is old, Same old faces, Same old lies, Same old weary promises, Everything is old. The hope locked in the PVC Is simply the more you look,  the less your wishes grow Elections are done in the morning And selections at night They cling vor...

  "The Endless Search"  In search for the cure for a fool, He almost became one Until he was forced back to his wretched holes By the strong fledgling arms of new reasonings  Standing tall against all the body of piled up truth he has ever known. Truth stored up for long  Soon loses its efficacy And become sour in the mouth of youngsters Who the new times have overfed with sweet sense at their fingertips.  How we ever came to this point Has eluded both sense and reason Nonetheless, we are on a march With ourselves, dead or alive, as the perpetual slaves of our search to know which lies beyond knowledge...