By David Akindele
The atmosphere was all the same.
Later, it will be lined with violence.
Like smoke does to a cloud,
Half baked into a flimsy excuse.
We will prepare our pens
And pack our brains full.
Anticipating our outpour
With thinly veiled trepidation.
They will appear in hoodies and nose masks
Looking every inch like an amateur armed robber.
We will ignore them and discard the thought
Like one does a used condom; flushed away.
They will start like adults in an argument
Involving only their mouth with words.
Then it will become so heated
Their fists and legs will join too.
You can say they were possessed
Or they were highly mad about weed
But destruction will follow
Broken gates, slashed tyres,
Smashed offices will follow
At the end of the day
The decision will be final
They say Heaven is the goal
But at that moment, home will be.
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