There is a reason hands hung
And mouths talk
But in my home
Mouths walk in talk
And swing in fling
Closing ears like clashing bombs
Forcing eyes to shut in disgust
Little things turn typhoons
Covering bigger fishes to sail beneath national seas
As small ones turn dishes on influential wishes
Multiplying the earthquake of development
Still hands hung
Eyes watch or close
Legs are rooted like static robots
As mouths stand in boxing rings
In competitions of no winners
As baby teeth dream of the future fights
And matured teeth drum their mouths
Into greying heads
What is change to do but sigh?
As generations of mouths
Graduate from talks with no walks
Where lies the future of a debating history?
Where lies the pots of progress
When hands remain clean as mouths knead fantasizing moulds?
I am but a little mouth
Flowing from my fingers’ ink
An ink flying spittle may erase
In this mouth cage
Still, what is this realm to do?
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2017