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Photo by @ikennaogbenta |
Into the
wind
thrown
caution
by crowns
and seals
grey with
folly and tricks,
drunk with
immunity
the scythe
comes thus,
door to door
illegal
tenders enfeebled
Scepters
wilting
Orville's
engine roar in vain
The thirsty
fertile land, sprouted spiky tares
when you
left her sumptuous thighs
in quest of
side-chicks
why scared
to reap your harvest?
Perhaps
while others tilled their farms,
you lent
your tools to their distant soils
Now you must
wallow your farm on nude soles
Harvest,
forthwith upon us
How good a
green finger you've been
is
reflective of the tares whose spikes
pierce in
lovely style, your desperate soles
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