The Deviant Poet Poem by Orike Didi
The Deviant Poet
I walked cloud-headed
Into the Hall of Shame
To lay a wreath of thorns
On the casket of a dead soldier.
The soldier is not a saviour
Nailed to the cross for nothing.
It was his robe dangling his frame
From the cross that killed him.
Call me the deviant poet,
The one whose clenched teeth empowers
The one whose iron fist punches the air
Till kings abandon their palaces.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 2:52:01 AM # 1.0.0.1119
