These Four Walls

As the night creeps in Apa ogwu He fills anxious about his status Hands all over my PC feasting on opportunities They jerk their heads in refusal They wallow in an empty space They throw covers of letters on the altar of the chosen one The blue frailled man is tired of working on the white landing mat They transform their energy to wasted efforts They throw them out to the cold arms of recession Their heart broods in restiveness Price tags changing themselves like clothes on the counter Sharp cries and hunger are let loose to lay siege on the vulnerable The big wings and long legs fly in and out like birds to conquer the machinations of life Their thoughts are running riot in Apa ogwu as they are caught up in the shadow of reflection They defuse the tension with a little dance of atilogwu