A closet of tempests
Soldiers never pay tax for disobedience,
trampling on the silence
with the boastfulness of bullets,
house crying, as their spines are torn down,
all because one kind
wants to rule,
and the philosophy
of unity in difference
is long bombed by dismal bravery
Bombers flying high,
they leave their mechanical
droppings which puke and
fire just licks development
off the delicacy of peace
When they shoot the children,
not even an earthquake occurs
in their hearts,
what is this insanity?
and blood is the denim
they were with pride,
this is the exact novel
told by the pulse of sinistery
Clothed by a mental swastika,
they ban peace from the surface
of the earth,
when they stab lives with discomfort,
and maim dreams of harmony,
is this what we want?
the road lay pale,
they been killed
by the virus of potholes,
the fiery mosaic
of bombs have visited them too often
Just look at how the blood
of the wind congeals,
muted by all those A-K,
and destiny continues to muse
with a way to stop this brutality!
By Kakraba Afful
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