Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
This land, what the hell befalls you?
I ask father again - where the voice dwells
Ours is a nation of eaters, no leftovers for
The wandering souls. We cry for a roof to call home.
Where are the pens that
Feed our ancestors? The ink out. Or seized
Are they? The cats stand by our soups and
Mother looked on - with perched gob.
To the grumbling minors, arrows are thrown.
Our dreams now roam in the street like the
Rome of Demons. A dome of doom.
Abiola. Giwa. Strike with your papers.
Rome Of Demons
Yusuf Baba Hammed
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 05/31/2022
Poet's note: This poem is written to look for journalists to aid in corruption going on in the society because they can do it, so, I'm calling on them to wake up!
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Poem topics: father, home, voice, street, roof, nation, thrown, mother, I love you, I miss you, feed, stand, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
About Rome Of Demons
Rome Of Demons is a poem by Yusuf Baba Hammed. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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