Kwabena Amoafo lives in a bottle
A bottle too small even for his hand
A bottle whose scent
throws more punches
To noses than the best boxers alive
But like a diminished grasshopper
He lives in what he blinds
Putting pressure on his people

What at all is in the bottle
That has the power to handcuff
And carve your soul to live within?
What at all is in that bottle
That burns your tongue into addiction?
What  at all is that bottle
That has the power to imprison you so?
Is it living in abstraction?
Living like a distraction?
Or living the fools action?

Why Kwabena?
Why does the bottle control you so?
You are its puppet
Finding bed in filthy liquid
In uncomfortable gutters
At its whip
You are like its stooge
Spewing secrets to eager opposition
With no knowledge
You are like its fool
Dancing off key
Like a tool in the hands of a clumsy mechanic
You are like its slug
Sleeping off your timely strength

I need the whip of your lord
To whip it out of your throne
Serving it is your hell
Not serving it seems to you your hell
It’s a pathetic post you pose
Where are the ninety nine gods
Of your land?
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) August 8, 2016

2 thoughts on “IN THE BOTTLE

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