By: Sherif Ogundele


Hands bloody from

paper cuts, flipping

the death register.

Through the target sign

bodies filter

into stars.

The news round up

waits till protesters

are rounded up.

To carry news

would be to

carry arms.

Where is our

Goat Head of State?

Don’t answer!

I think he is on

airplane mode.

Catch him

at the blunt end

of silence,

meditating a move

in classic chess,

where pieces

have grown roots

from waiting.

Save the graves,

nowhere is safe.

A war of psalms

against arms,

these beggars’ palms

don’t say Psalms for alms.

They “clack! clack!!”,

typing your name

into the black hole.

The gun is a telescope

foreseeing you as

a vanishing star.

But today we raise

our voices against

the rising price of freedom.

We drop the thunder:

exclamation mark, a gavel,

the shock of “shocks.”

We trace entangled

scars to where they

could only lead —

out of the maze,

out of the craze.

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