time has stolen all my ideas
the vocal chords of my mind
that gave me divine messages,
are singing empty, dry mimes

It seems imagery has deserted me,
rhyming, disowned me,
free verse, dethrowned me,
it is with aero-ink,
the ink of the air that
I write these words,
wandering,
meandering,
aimlessly in the dry nile
of my contemplations

even keys on a piano loose
their voice, my leaves are
no more green but mottle
with this virus of literature
that stagnates my flow

emptiness hovers around my eyes,
an emptiness so deep,
like a bottomless pit,
an abyss, full of not even air,
but the loneliness of my soul,
convicted from redemption,
as literature sues me
for curtailing its dynamism,
it’s not me,
but this unfortunate echo
that speaks and repeats nothing.
                                                  By Kakraba Afful