The sun dabs the morning's blue canvas
with its golden bristles of dawn, stroking warm tones
and announcing an old new beginning on the horizon.

The morning breeze nudges playful clouds,
sending each gliding on the canvas, where the sun's gentle taps anoint them with warmth.

Beneath, the foliage waves,
marveling at the unfolding canvas, their limbs reaching out
                     to bask
                     in the sun's eternal, quiet
                     masterpiece.

We who were cursed at conception
blame the ***** that stooped
at the sight of condoms
and spilled this weak seed
for our misfortunes.

Look around you and see
our saviors conjuring gold and silver
in the ruins of our poverty,
the poverty they vowed to crush.
And what do we do?
We fight.

Armed with Tecnos and Itels in our hands,
we caress our gadgets
hurling weeping and furious emojis
beneath headlines of corruption and inflation,
while some of us fight in free verse
to gain nothing.
What a pitiful generation!

Versed in the art of silence and independence,
he quietly hosts the soul gnawing parasites
which devour him from within
only leaving crumbs of his being.

He is broken.
He is heavy with multitudes of untold tales,
so he seeks Caesarian experts
to deliver him from the burdens.
"Be strong, be a man" they say,
and he goes.

At home,
the hanging clothes flutter in excitement.
They whisper to him,
"Come, join us on the line to paradise."

Two fraternal finger servants  
Heading for two different yet identical realms—  
One to the pants,  
One to the booth,  
To serve two ungratified masters.  

In the pants,  
The finger scratches the master’s itchy *****,  
Scooping grime for the traitor’s feast.  
He snorts his ***** finger in euphoria,  
Indulging in the filth,  
Yet his soul recoils, a silent cry  
Against the grime he cannot deny.  

At the booth,  
The other plunges into indelible ink,  
Navigating a murky future  
Inscribed on a cursed parchment.  
It surfaces,  
Stamping false hope on the ballot.  
A sigh escapes, a ghost of regret,  
For promises it cannot forget.  
Later, the master whispers, “change is here.”  

Which finger is safe?  
The one in filth?  
The one in dark ink?  
Which serves the master honestly?  
Are they both slaves to deceit?  

In one, the finger delves to gratify.  
In the other, it plunges to gratify.  
Both serve, both spoil—  
One in filth, one in ink.  
Both bound, both sink.