Have you ever prayer with a letter to an illiterate god?
Pistol packed but can’t afford bullets,
Our fridges are starving, insufficient funds rises our insulin.

Ready to sail to our green pastures
But our ****** drowned in pirates’ palms,
Those who see man suffering hate their *****’s victory,
Our talent mummified because we can’t afford to live out our dreams.

We are rejects of the system, deviants to the society
Every year our resolutions are the same
Yet we been writing them for decades
Born with no silver-spoon but promised street of gold

So I turned to the God:
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”

Cast the first stone
We moving the streets like we queuing for judgment,
In divided societies searching deviants
We have lost our moral compass
Our demons navigating hell
Place called Home
It rains umbers.

Corruption termed mismanagement of funds
None willing to lift a heavy stones.

I was told scorpions inhabited stones’ shadows,
So I won’t cast the first stone
But remain in judgment for their curses
I will move the street till sunset.
Judged.