Blowing the Whistle
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The snatcher of a growing childhood
converting adolescent innocence to adult desperation
now wears trending covering of power and glamour
with mind blowing colours fading away from one wash
coming from a shredded past is this trapped thunder
having an attitude felt in different temperatures
and character molded by a thousand question marks.
An uncle by blood, a friend at heart
a heart which announces all kinds of delicious meals
but serves in actuality spicy foamy vomit
shows qualities seemingly classmates to humanity
but are wholesomely baptized in the dead sea
the chilling atmosphere is no camouflage for this freezing fire
bathed in his urine, yet now declared clean.
Time has grown beards and once again, their eyes meet
she's expected to kick the whistle for his fame to linger
his shadows, too weighty for this new image he carries
smiles manifesting with a lazy energy
knocking the head of every feminine soul
his moving up has considered these stains beautiful
with his sleeping crimes far from societal righteousness
whoever he has beaten, should be a celibate prostitute
and kick the whistle, never letting it reach the lips.
His sunflower is blue and honey, bitter
letting the world know this, translates to singing hymns to the dead
she stands her ground to open his history's black chamber
he's the criminal but the public stands as her poisonous jury
she chews this bone with rubber teeth but never stops
the truth unveils but to noisy ears
to let all know he's an adult born of a child.
He's tenacious but not on a jean underwear
one more little voice adds to force out a moving plant
the anthill is broken as they come out of all holes
one time preys now unforgiving predators
to show a personality as real as a neckless head
resting on boneless shoulders
the whistle has been blown rather than kicked
as justice and fairness become first cousins to life.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2017
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