We are the empty men of the street,
a cup which water fail to grace;
the sky shies away from us at dawn
then, the sun welcomes us harshly at noon.
We are the window of pain and struggle
dinning from cozy drainage and frozen atmosphere.
When you see us smile, another uncertainty is created,
this street has known us and we are part of the street
like the palms of our hands and our imaginations;
like the elephant, we give pains to the ground
and the ground mock us like the little Ant at dusk.
No one cares of the thunder that sends fears in us,
no one cares of the rain that threatens us.
This dying thought created terror and empathy,
They said we have step to every beat
Yet, they take our deeds to the fire for judgement
We speak to break this and all
To tell of our sorrow to the world
Let them know what the politicians has caused us
The land they made unbearable
Through this broken silence of thought.
© John Chizoba Vincent