Be a man, Stand strong, Men don't cry, They say. That's how we are made. Somewhere, There's a conveyor belt Constantly chucking out Boys, with pent-up toxic emotions, Shoulders hunched under the weight of society's expectations. There's a piece of wood in my mouth I bite hard on it praying I don't black out As I saw off another weakness I saw in the mirror. Something about Better to enter the Kingdom With one arm... I don't know... A brother died today,
When bats at 37 take to flight, At a quarter past four Or, whatever time Accra heralds the night,
When bats at 37 take to flight, For me, there's not a more beautiful sight Of creatures, imagined or real, That lay claim to these glorious skies.
When bats at 37 take to flight, With fevered screeches that punctuate the night When by sheer numbers they darken the skies And, below, people of a superstitious disposition Can not be bothered, I am reminded that, Given enough time all things cease to be strange.
When bats at 37 take to flight, Devoid of vibrant plumes unlike most things that fly, Rising like Legion and the hordes of hell, In defiance of extermination attempts, Above the Hospital in elusive figurativeness, Haphazardly, in sync, over constipated traffic There is not a doubt who owns the peppered night.