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.

Two diurnal natives of summer
meet beneath a sapphire dome tent-
to sing,
to dance.

His whirling robes
lift him in spirals
around her luminous petal dress, while she sways and rustles
to the rhythm of his buzzing.

His gentle pecks-massaging her green nape,
her sweet spot-
summon her nectary flow;
he gulps,
drunk on the offering.

Gently,
winter unfurls summer's azure tent blowing a dark mist across her petals. As she fades in the haze,
he hovers
through the fog
for distant warmer hues.

A naturalised immigrant,
a subject and a leader,
acquires a strange but familiar territory
at the utterance
of “I do.”

Season after season,
familiarity bribes patriotism
while betrayal sneaks past barbed loyalty,
recruiting every whisper, every soft touch,
that swore allegiance
and vowed nothing
but infatuate
with goosebumps and urge.

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!

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.

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."

We saw the preacher,  
we heard him too,  
when—with a hanky—  
his puffy palm  
dabbed our sweat  
off his temple.

He exclaimed:  
“Woe unto those  
who don’t give  
to the Lord,  
for the kingdom of God  
is not theirs!”

The sermon—  
like snorted crack—  
zombified us,  
the aspiring saints,  
into rummaging  
our exhausted mines,  
as we reached  
for remnant alms  
with palms  
drier than his.

I sat down thinking about a pen,
so I took out my pen
to write about the pen.

Before I started to write,
I repeatedly struck my temple,
and each strike let out a snare
of thoughts playing truth or dare-while the pen warmed up to play.

I wrote about how the pen
took my refugee pain
and gave it a pen
on a paper that was once plain.

With my pen,
I also wrote
about how the pen bled
while dropping bars
to free my incarcerated melodious bars
for those seeking freedom and peace in bars.

29th June 2025

The world is now here,
my child,
to extend
its split-scaled arms—
to embrace you
into a hypnotised discipleship
of mass hysteria
against that child in you.

That child in you
hurls Lego bricks
at the world,
after the world
has pinched your ego,
but expects no winces
from you.

You see,
it is a world
that baptises with one hand,
and strangles with the other.

I’m sorry
for bringing
you here.