A Petition Poem by Folayemi Akande

Have not a thin grace to spear, time's cruel knife?
That man's faith is mortared and left to clive
You with death, sneeze doom unto his strive
You attorn his hope to nothing but waif.

What geins have you to profet from this trade?
Forge from his blood a monumental gold?
Or from his repose are fine damask made?
Your profit is the loss of days long old.

I chair no despair for your trade dear frend.
But your fattest gains are sourced from his blood
You melt from his tears shining blade and sword;
Sons of doom that do not widows pains mend.

Dear Knife, ease your temper, let us be whole.
Be not like fire, that breathes nought but woe