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| Photo: guardian.co.uk |
For Mali
We run
a race of an unmarked finish line
On a
track spiked like the back of a porcupine.
Men lacking
the capacity for deep feeling conceived the ruthless disease
Holding
out the pot of honey only to buzz and sting like bees.
Souls
of mankind stranded in a maze.
The only
way out is the hard way,
Cause a
hint of achievement sparks up a rat race.
As human
souls are absorbed by constant warfare
A state
of emergency charges up the atmosphere.
It’s
easy to get in but a different story getting out.
If anybody’s
ever going to survive this stint is still a case in doubt.
Frustration
is modus operandi
And all
vanities are stretched to the extreme.
These are
the times it’s almost logical
That the
very core of men’s intent turns diabolical.
The race
course runs through the depths of pain.
In this
situation, hate seems the natural diagram to paint.
Every milestone
covered commands fear to a certain degree,
We have
been brought down on bended knee
And pulling
it through is like the labors of Hercules.
Existing
in this life is a picture perfect painting of the apocalypse.
Is
there hope of a point in time a hiatus would emerge?
Cause truth
is mortalized and all ethical motive sabotaged.
As a
consequence for the suffering comes bitching
To devastate
every sense of rationality.
If mortals
are indeed architects of their own destiny,
Then right
here, right now, we are from the least to the greatest, history.
Akpan
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