Afflicted long enough

Who are we to rot like carcasses?
Shall my seedlings perish in streets,
without proper burial?

These so called whips of life
Patterning bruises on our backs
Spearheading our deafening yells

‘They’ informed us to shun expectations
To be content in circumstances
Aren’t humans humans?

Traversing infinite miles in nothingness
Roasting ourselves for a meal
Inciting our littlings with denial

Fate doomed ‘Lolota’ in streets,
to be consumed by vultures,
in our circle the now culture

Lorah committed suicide
‘Farewell’ from this tiring cycle
She left us cold as ice

Of her brothers, unaware
Spiritual attacks robbing them of way,
losing a life’s flow

Shall our plate be of poverty?
Our relish of mockery?
Never toppling like a rockery.