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