poem: The lable.
THE LABLE.
Who am I? What am I doing here?
These questions often take a hold of me.
Who are they?
They lavish the streets of London, cat-walking with their cat eyes, preying on us mice like it’s their runway.
I gazed fiercely at their masked happy faces in crowd.
Everyone seems have the label.
Their label.
They bow and raise it to the lords, high and mighty with pride and grace.
My four hinged legs crawled away in despair.
They swear to repair the world, but clearly,
this was all a snare and delusion.
I watch as they begin to tear with their wild claws and scare with their styled flaws.
They don’t watch me. They don’t know me.
I don’t have the label.
I don’t have,
it.
What am I? What am I doing here?
They love the dazzling labels!
They often grip.
It, tight.
Feasting on it with greed.
‘Make sure you don’t trip!
If, it slips? Then… It, will lay there.
Untouched and never to be touched.
As much as they prey on me,
I pray to their lord that they don’t trip and lose their grip.
As the sun sets, the streets becomes rather, gloom.
It’s not a surprise that I remember the wise words of my mother.
After all, their striking cat eyes blinded,
And their cold hearts left me senseless.
Her soft voice wafts in my ears.
‘Your hands can fix things’.
And suddenly my fears diminished into the dusk.
Who would have thought I would bloom.
After the cruel doom.
The little mice four hinged legs transformed to two hands and two legs.
It proud hands raised majestically into the sky.
No! No! No! They shouted.
Where is it? The label? The lords would never approve!
With a final gaze at their striking cat eyes. I shouted.
‘My hands can fix things’.
So Who am I? What am I doing here?
By Bolutife Adebesin