His moniker, harmless,mere shadow brings dead hush upon raucous throats baying for blood in the street.
He’s not born that votary of hell-hounds who prance up and down sowing mayhem and murder,swilling gray and green wine.
They brag their hold on peace’s jugular,of routine lynching of justice and sense. Their default lair is Esu’s courtyard where mischief and intrigue hold court.
Night,mere chaos runs amock, with shame cowering behind doors. And dawn, broken bottles, discarded half-smoked weed and odd limbs litter the place.
But power swoops down from hallowed heights to dusty dens to ask aid of bloodied cudgels, axes and bullets.
Who else but our president of the street weds power and powerlessness sealing the deal with the street’s blood?
@ Chris Anyokwu. 13 November, 2024.
