When dryness parted ways with Circle
And all extinguishers were upset
Innocent souls bade untimely bye
To us who survived.
When the pillars of Melcom
Could no longer hold it to position
And licensed it ruins
The story of life was once again
Told by an idiot;
Souls left this phase of the world
To its second.
I know of just two seasons
In my homeland Ghana.
Yet a time came
That we registered a third.
The season which birthed too much pain;
The suicide season.
Let me pause a minute
To console the affected;
Family, friends and the entire human race.
I wish I could whisper
To them in their graves
That IT still lives
The very reason they died for,
Sorry if the world was too small
To contain your quandaries.
The pain of the oppressed
Is counted joy for the oppressor
The sanity of the innocent
Never ceases to be naivity for the infidel.
My pen cries tears of loneliness
I am lonely like Amma Darko is.
If my modified breathe can’t call for a reform,
Then my pen, my sword,
Should stab this albatross of mishap
That hangs around our necks to death.
I sit on my couch
To recollect those memories in tranquility
When we sit outside
From dusk to dawn
To enjoy granny’s tales
But what do we see today?
The vices of this world
Have placed curfews on us.
My pen cries weary tears for reform
The world can be a little better,
If not the best.
My pen critiques negligence and indifference
Let’s not be architects of our own problems.