Paper Crown Poem by Vincent Onyeche

Lost in a tight room full of thorns
Soon it shall take away the juice of fun.
Then leakage shall become of all likeminds,
Doomed into revival the moment I take pills

Somewhere within the nerves in my brain, I take turns
To think beyond political shafts and corns
Doomed, my stomach go from good to churn
Irritated by the leftovers of dirty schemes…

Spotted on the green and white grasses…
Mast down as the black fire consumes the fresh roots
From solids to gases, I shed tears…
For children conceived into these smoky rooms

To become puppets of political stewardships,
Dammed to hard labor for back pats that pays no bills….
In these rooms of cloud, learning is not to lessons
But to enchanting regrets and on their bare heads

The weight of the world in tonne,
They carry from pillar to posts.
The gods are dead and so are the ancients
Africa my motherland, earth of iron stones

Proudly created around rivers of greatness
But now surrounded by hell in a terrible lawn
Where abasing generations….
Walk and loose their true color brown,

Beside gasoline, to grey white…
In exchange for a paper crown…
That shall be terribly torn by rains
And soon ignited by thick flames.