RUNNING STORIES, SLEEPING DEEDS

I know mouths of my land are like machine guns
Digging bullets of the past
Putting them in golden throat guns
Soiling voices meant for firing monsters
And firing through
Gunning for hardworkers
And yelling into international microphones
Their unfortunate past
Seeking sucking sympathies
While real works stare our faces
Like infants needing their parents’ embrace
Why lions are now dogs
And eagles are now flies
As owls turn hidden frogs
Abena, I know not
Mother Ghana has been made a whore
A whore by the very people she accomodates
And gives life
Legs moulded in such great effort
Now bow in front of the supposedly rich
Looking for crumbs of their bread
When we hoard the flours in purity
Why?
Fie on you
Fie on me
Fie on the fragments that fail to merge
Fie on greed
Fie on seeds
Fie on us seeds who fail the creed
Bow thy heads in red
Covering in black
And mourn your dead zeals for the top
Wronged?
Don’t be
You have all the power to wake the dead
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2015