My life,
built with the infrastructure of strife,
weds misfortune as a wife,
distress is the tattered flag
that declares me a hairless hag
The sun wilts,
my breathe even needs to walk on stilts,
my existence, so diluted and weak
I'm suffering from the virus of the unfortunately meek,
and with endeavours that rust,
faithlessness do I trust
power has eluded me,
my hands wither
and without much to see
does bravery quiver
Now my heart aches,
smiles abandoining my domain
as the sun's scorch rakes,
reveals my spine and reveals pain
on the cupboard, do cobwebs play
the rib exposure is the order of the day
For long, my soul wears braces,
stooping low and devoid of aces,
yelping now, I take slow paces,
to the land of withering faces.
By Kakraba Afful