Daily, we rise, like unscripted words on felt

Scrawled in haste by fate

As we go and return, a page in life is done

Until again, a next page which comes with the rising sun

It is not out of anger, that the typist blots a line

In order to have a perfect script


Music defines life,

The absence of which, connotes death

A muted music, like a muffled cry

Of a slit throat seem to Heaven as an inkblot

Just as we, in show of might, smash life into hard walls

Bringing the mosquito’s life to quietus.



~ © Shittu Fowora








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