Tears of puss
My tears turn to ash,
my world becomes volcanic
with the noisy eruptions
of suffering,
I'm sleeping on a bed of spines
walking on a carpet of thorns,
oil has been spilt
on my wings of fortitude
The moonlight is spilt
across my day,
a splinter of hope,
this, I must say
is the holy chastity
of furnacious life,
unraped by the
man of success
I've been swallowing sickles,
sweating steel,
and my blood frys, sizzles
on the oven-tray ground,
baked in defeat
There is this gigantic headache,
a grim, ambush of uppercuts,
destiny has hurled at me,
things are so dry
that I begin to sweat out
the vapor of pain.
By Kakraba Afful
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