By Noel Ihebuzor
Eyes buried deep in hollow round sockets,
the sagging sack of bones speak for bodies
clothed in loose fitting tired plastic skin buckets
drooping like tired jute bags, brown, crumpling floppies
Buttocks shrivelled and feet
swollen ungainly,
dragging weeping frame around in now ending cycles
the circling flies,
whirling after twirling running tummies meet
mums in panic, running around dazed in dizzying circles
holding on to and hoping….
and ignoring hopes now withering
yet stubbornly clutching to withered hopes, wilting and dithering
Close by, on well manicured lawns,
watered tenderly by cycling swinging sprayers,
in circles of overflowing affluence
where grass lawns are fed with grace
from the proceeds of illicit deals and heist of disgrace
Pastors, prophets, politicians co-habit
preach, pray, praise, and pontificate
in voluminous waffle, clogging spaces with sterile volubility,
consciences clogged, hard hearts twisted,
greed terraced mindscapes and bodyscapes, carousing
in convoluted cavorting
Waste dances indecent
in the wining and dining,
want swells, ballooning,
sweeping fragile frames and staggering souls
their mother whining,
along to painful grinding end points
a procession preceded by a small wooden box
announces the end of one cycle,
the prolongation of the circle,
the festering sore enlarges
speaking the language of a cycle of infamy
and a dooming narrowing circle
closing in on the undying hope of mothers with dying children
their throats and lives throttled by the plump hands
of greed, callous, grabbing and choking
Reflections 