SANDS

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Twisted into the jamboree of
existence,

As right becomes wrong by
revelations,
Like nature in its own path as
hatred pats,
Peace; a totem to acquire at the
expense of lives.
Through the time of ages past,
We wear rhymes on the smallest
hype,
With thine in shock of thy
glorious awe,
A stitch that saves only the
strongest pout.


Scattered upon the face of Mother
Nature.

The pixie dust of varying culture.
Monuments of father Abraham’s
auction,
Surrogates of the first man: Adam.
We remain the vanity of creation,
As though failure was created,
From naught to naught we wine and
dine,
Paddling the canoe in a muddy
reality.
Upon souls that yarns for peace,
Thou art the end of justified
means,
The continuous cracks in serenity,
The sand in the pure house.
written by Tokede Daniel
danatoks@gmail.com