So you are aggressively flying here and there
When most of your heads are hanging
Some in the hands of your owners
As your anger of blood gushes out like angry tap water fighting through a small hose
Masters, fly your last!
Ei! Look at the mould on your sense
Disgustingly hairier than abandoned spoilt foods of the gods
Look at the line of your words
Nonsensically crooked as though they come from a filthy sty
Just ask the mirror for the nature of your eyes
You are like a never lived vampire hanging between the power of the gods
And the will of spirits
Ah! Kon kon kon kon kon kon kon kon!
The time is wake-oclock!
Wake-oclock at the dawn of many sensible fingers
Holding erasers specially made for outmodedness and stupidity!
Stupidity that some souls must stay in their shadows to model their jittery steps!
The pickaxe of fairness has dug the tomb of misogyny!
The shovel of equality is waiting to clear the soil of egoism
To bury the dark which chained high minds to stakes of domesticity
So fly hither and tither with your last strength
Until you die to be birthed anew
Into the day of sensefulness
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Oct. 12, 2018