In areas rural
When the most revered art was the mural
When nature’s abundance helped us play with the squirrel
When things of appeal have not gotten to our neural
We lived without peril
For love emanated from the visceral
And we were thankful to be in the land of the liberal
Taking all that were said in the literal
And habouring no immoral.
Now, we with words, without codifications, crush
Pulling with bare hands the human heart in a rush
Without a blink, not to talk of a hush
With magnifying cannibalism we blush
And pleasure in terrifying terror and lust without hearing a shush
When engaging in heart wrenching deeds with even the thrush
Of seductive women in apparels plush
Where are we headed?
What is the destination?
What will bring the satisfaction and erase the longings of hate?
What will our pride be in the end?
Why do we engage in these misgivings?
Whose benefit is the goal?
Who sits in the bench to judge and award such hideous engagements?
In the end, we are nothing
But the sand under the feet of the fruits of our wombs.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, (c) 2013.