now that the streets are stripped
and keys lock themselves in
defiance,
should nudity blind the eyes of minors?
now that the streets are filled
with dry tongues
and streams dry at daybreak,
from whence should spittle flow as
fountains?
you are a lad whose songs suspend
all chaos
as every tongue is tempted to
test a divisive theory;
your lyrics are now dead that
lights the lone candle.
plucked from thorns—dry are the
roses thrown at your feet.
yours is a blind eye that tell stories
of yesteryear;
yet, these stories rename
themselves every passing day.
a strange cloud fills your head
and forms a note:
the keeper of this
mind has lost his job.
go home and await a worthy rebel.
when you let your sweat drop on a
photo
that fetched you fame, your
mind’s keeper died again.
forlorn, there were no tears to
celebrate your foolery
and i still plead—let your
rebellion be vanquished.
while you have your eyes closed
and your ears sold;
your muse is in labor and awaits
your repentance.
you are not a rebel.
embrace a new birth. a new song.
© Echezonachukwu Nduka
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