from the poetry of sand,

to the novels of clay,

a behemoth sleeps, constructed

by bricks,

the souls of many are locked

in there,

you can hear them moan

or cry

about the agony

of their futile convictions

Iron bars of righteous esteem,

radiate memories

of the killings and the murders

and the robberies,

then suddenly, they forgo sordid ignorance,

the theft of the mind,

they're at home,

yet convicts of their wrong doing

Now, their vicions are tainted

with blood,

and their peace has been

stolen by their own cruel actions,

rattled conscience!

their sins ressurrect as ghouls

to hover over them

and their future,

they shall know no rest

till the truth has been spoken.

                                                        By Kakraba Afful