Day 23: Fickle Pensioners

My soul spins a spiteful oracle

Of a giant who sleeps

In the season of his miracle.

Of delight bottle-necked in

The confines of a fairy tale;

Of prophecy

Stillborn before it broke surface;

Of a heavy weight of hours,

Of due process and tons of bluffers

Which having been must ever be.

Of oil, of gas, of natural bliss

Which spitefully rob us of a national glory;

Of a beginning held victim

By the very end it predicts.

Of promises melting in the heat like clouds of rain;

Of fickle pensioners of Morpheus train.

Akpan