This poem talks about not just Nigeria but the world at large. It talks about the greed and desperation of the rulers, the chaotic condition of the poor masses, the debilitated futures of our unborn generations, the ignored grief and cacophonies in the world, the abysmal conspiracies and silences of those whose voices are loud.

It talks about the breeding war that will consume both the strong and the weak, those in the highest echelons of the society and those who are lowly looked down upon. It talks about us, everyone, it talks about the political rapists and the dark-hearted lords of lies, the emissaries of rifts.

The Emissaries Of Rifts:
Source: https://writersgut.com/post/emissaries-of-rifts-by-kel-armstrong-read-write-share-and-earn

We are buried alas, between lies and lusts
Deep in the insolence of emissaries of rifts,
Those who purport the emication of our hopes.

Lifeless breaths bottled in dark rooms
Full of smells of smokes of treachery
Burgeoning the desires of shallow hearted thieves.

They feed on the rays of the south sun
In the days when the dead are beyond the count of graves
To the glory of their lettered greedy guns
And the scourge of those separated from their nerves.

They preach love in the day, teach hate at dusk
Riddling the peace of the sermons of the weak
Sparing no church nor mosque
In their butchery, to outwit men of their kind
In the chaos of chameleons that lost their minds.

They fight and squabble amongst themselves
Like fractious children
Enamored with the sounds of sorrows
And the veneration of their oblations.

These owls, these owls, and their legion
They prepare our funeral from their white graves
And have made our strife the totem of their legacy.

Sweet and seductive satisfaction entrench their hearts
when they unleash the tempest of their brutality
And wash their way up
With the questioning blood of their victims.
And them that are possessed of the owls in the North
Do they not know that the gods they kill for are fools
And they are their fool-stool?

Such repugnant fools,
They are close to the ocean, so
They set themselves ablaze
With the generations of their children.

Sowing seeds of contempt
Among the will-bended youths of the West
Masking their visions, toys,
Do you not know that those you call lords,
The Jagabans, they tread your lives in exchange
For their tickets to hell?

See, the brute of the rest has torn the East apart
And the truth glows from the valleys
Of the dark past;
For refusing to accept blood-soiled-fingers of mistrust
Forced on them for years, from the owls of the Iroko
Through their pitiful iberiberic Iches
They deserve a published punch?

Do you all not know
That the benevolence of a hungry spirit
Is a prophecy of a predatory vulture?

What argument do they have against the South?
You, birds of darkness, harbingers of misery;
You take their honor, you take their harmony
You take their patience and then
You take the lives of those that forgot that
Our soldiers have no rubber bullets.

Poorboys,
Do you not know, my brothers,
That the Capo Di Tutti’s dogs
Must match every bullet with a dead body?

While they undignify us

We clap cloaked in apparels of clowns
Adorned with colorful hats of hunger
Applauding men that supreme over us
With fists of fallacy and heavens born of a hoax.

Some have beseeched, others begged and bleed
Many have esaued their rights in the markets
Of them, that stole our smiles and stars

Some, for a feather,
Defend the abecedary evil of these owls
Unifying their efforts with a bricolage of lies.

When are we going to learn
That they are no longer the sole creators
Of our misery and grief?
We propel their cruelty against the widows of our sons
Against the orphans of our daughters
We, slaves of silence and fear
We, sycophants that celebrate celestial sin
We have immortalized our wounds with our division
And glued guts.

We have all circled ourselves with fire and fury
And in our battle for wit we wreck, we burn!

But the casualties are not just the sons of the poor
Nor the daughters of orphans
But also the generations to come,
Those who will stand with fatigued legs to answer
To the crimes of their fathers
In the hole of shadowed stars

Pity, generation of fools!
Pray, sons of sacrilegious gods
Pity, sons of serpents;
The epitaphs of your fathers
Will be engraved on stones, yes,
Lies contradicting their deeds
But the truth we shall forever etch in our hearts
And wherever your names are mentioned
We shall remember their sins in their sons.



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Very beautiful! I would've framed and kept, it but not enough we need nothing of beauty at this stage unless its beautiful rage.