I dwell in this ghost town , that harbours wandering spirits

of boys who went and never returned.

This town where condolences are meals
for mothers with girls that faded into dirt.

Yesterday, before the moon broke its slumber,
a child was born.
Today, after the sun set the sky on fire,
three children died.
Tomorrow, I may not be in this poem.

For I live in a land dyed with the blood of youths
running from the agony of guns.

A place where the body of beloveds
scatter hither and thither.

I live in a borough where
babies who know their mothers
are only the ones who saw them dying.

I live in Jos
A place where there’s no Jos–tice.

Hearken me, O greedy trash bags!
For this pain will disappear,
with or without your will.

The day will come
When the souls of these bodies you killed
with your Pretense for justice
And broken promises
Will haunt you into wilderness.

Until then, may the reverberating cries of this dying children
Strangle the necks of your peace less sleep.

 

 

 

 

Writer’s Bio

I am Billyhadiat Taofeeqoh Adeola, a 17 year old teenager who writes to right the wrongs in the society. A budding poet whose watchword is humanity.