The lamb ate our lion

I had a dream, I saw
In the afternoon
The line of a killer and his victims
zombies answering the compatriot’s call

With sepulchral fingers
Taking stocks of fallen souls
Dragging un-slippered feet
Through mediocrity, our own death

In the street corner
Every angry brother, angry
With the sun on their backs
Guns at each other’s skull

Sitting on ebony crafted throne
Eaten by the black termites
A thousand more
Ready to devour still

Loathing children
Banished from mother’s milk
Their hearts balanced
Levelled by a dice

Who tells the biggest lie
If honesty’s guarding door
Who ate the eggs
In the prison stalls

Parade avenues decorated
Soldiers wearing agbada
Waving their seriated tendons
With the voice of the parade drum

A tasty brew
With a trembling heart
Retiring sour
Even as daylight comes

Grains of hope
Like the sand of Nile
Grow when it rains blood
Tears and sorrow

Is the future lost
As past times
In between now and never
No one sees no signs

Stay on the line
Tell a revolution
Like a rainbow, post storm
In a night sky

Then I woke
“the line of a killer and his victims!”
It was not a dream
In the afternoon


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