You “won’t get dirty”- yet you roll around in mud
Now you’re reaping the harvest that you sowed with seeds of blood.
The terror rooted in pride and ego, from which they received
no repose
That “as you live by the sword, you’ll die by
the sword” was lost on you, I suppose.
But it’s a hollow balloon, a bubble and like all such- it
must burst
Then you’ll run, run, run and run again as the flood covers the Earth
A quandary for which you are unrehearsed
A war from which you cannot desert.
And the ‘efforts’ we see are but smoke and mirrors
So an apparent inability to act, figures.
Since fix it you could yet do, but you cannot acknowledge
and act on the truth
Because you’ve ransomed your control, mortgaged your hold
For not more than the love of power, oil and gold.
When you build a foundation of loaded weaponry
Don’t be surprised when it explodes.
© Zoe Olukoga 2016
The Narrator's Pen 