SERAPHIM FALLS II
The night it rained fire on
the roof of our lips at the crossroad
to change marked the genesis of
our escape from dungeons of
slavery guarded by angels wearing
rusted armours of debauchery.
That night, every actions was a detonation,
every gesture, a release of missiles,
as we channeled our antipathy toward the
irksome acts of hogwash
orchestrated by our gods.
We watched as idiocy cloaked in the
voices of odious men on suits
got swallowed up by the dexterity
of our words; how we silenced the
roars of aged thieves with radiophones.
how we underwent birth-pangs to be
delivered of the zygote of dreams which had
matured in the womb of a new era;
and how we later headed towards the citadel of
renaissance, a place where our hope was no
more in phantasies prophesied by illusionists
but rather hinged on actualities materialising into
excellence and better tomorrows
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