Mold

No need to run

The future will catch you

Don’t woo the cheap message

Peddled by the fear-mongers

The odds are not against you

They are idle stacks of numbers

The odds are not for you

Numerals don’t break a sweat

You are enthroned  endlessly

In the center

Of the season of change

The climate of fear is looming

But the weather is still your villein

The boom showers they promised

Are forever impending

The mold for tomorrow

Lies between your palms

A man’s heart may lie to him

But his hands are never deceptive

 

© GBOLABO ADETUNJI/ AYOKA

 

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