What’s left of me,
In the abandoned garden
Of teak trees, minerals, rivers,
Is Craving, Crying and Wailing
For a helping hand.
I can no longer menstruate
Because there’s no blood left
In my arteries, nor veins,
I suffer throes caused not by thrombosis,
But being drained by my own children.
I was a beautiful garden,
Repleted with roses and rhododendrons.
Out of abundance, my throat choked on,
Luring detractors far and wide of the globe,
Even my desolate North was not spared.
I was adorned with gold, diamond, bauxite,
On my protruded Western butt,
Fattened Central neck and flattened Eastern chest.
Even my deserted North boast of Shea trees.
I was full of Gold and Green,
Blue and black,
Patriots and Nationalist,
Committed and Dedicated,
Honor and Sanctity clouded my yesteryears.
But here I lie today,
Left with my bone,
All the flesh; one I once prided in,
Is eaten by the devouring canine
Of my own children without sympathy for posterity.
I was once advised by their father’s fathers,
That evil is as useful as good is.
I tasted good at their time;
I wanted to see the usefulness of evil,
And now I can’t find a trace of honor in them.
I know I’m heading to my own doom,
Whenever they say “I pledge on my honor.”
The flesh which made me lascivious,
Attracting responsible and irresponsible alike,
Is devoured to the bone.
My once illuminating greenery,
Has given way to the reddish-brown of the Sahara,
The gold, my symbol of purity,
Once cleanly soiled by a man in suit,
Rescued by their fathers, now is soiled crudely by them.
What’s left of me is wrung without worry.
My marrow is drenched to the Nth power,
My painful tears, mistaken as joy,
And the overwhelming silence breaks my spine.
Now I wait to die; my final death.