Poem: Bloody Wings Of A Butterfly
Born on the 'big' plank of wet shade
Shared all the capitalists cork
Twinkled in the vineyard of wealth
From bloody sweat of the poor
A sore taste of accomplishment
Realized in the upper age of life
Nursed by the blood of the poor
In a suction capitalists machine
In its youth,
It shout to the pinnacle of sympathy
While aiming at the bones
Of the poor in the vineyard.
Union of controlled monopoly
From generation to generation
In a bedridden polity
Triggered by a sucking machine
A broken soul on a table of promiscuity
Called by profaned mouths to rise
Under the witness of a Chandelier's eye
Shinning like a Christmas discotheque.
Followed by loud roar of satisfaction,
A butterfly is born at the tip edge sword
With long imperial ponytail of status
Stood erect in defensive mood
The message of Class and Wealth
written allover its day old body
And well portrayed
On the bandages of its bloody wings.
--a capitalists machine on it's wheels
grinding through epochs unfettered
Fueled by the big shade of broken flesh
And the tears of the poor lads
When asked....?
They say "but I need it for survival"
Or they say "it's the fuel of the world"
Yet the sucked blood is forgotten.
By Al Latif Kambo-Naa
Post a Comment