Déjà Vu | Osatogbe Shola
A tortuous circle.
Frolicking in a rigmarolic situation.
Tested and bested, the tape never breasted.
Impaired by the conquistadors and conquerors, hapless is the helpless.
Tactless is the detested.
Wasted is the fertile land by the disdainfully wasteful.
Emotions running high, just going through the motions, a noxious notion endear nothing but commotion given a potion;
a supposed elixir turned poison, a seasoning that confused our good sense of reasoning.
This queer system is beyond reasoning.
Maddening and bembalming is this contraption, swayed away from earlier traditions, so many contradictions.
In every prayer house is said a benediction, chicken-heartedly said, without much conviction.
By hook by crook the end justifies the means, brute force being used to the fullest, the gullible being lead by the enfant terrible to the gallows.
A tot’s thoughts that is so shallow, minds so narrow will definitely get hurt to the marrow, standing in line like goods being rolled out from the factory line, under the scorching sun or the drenching rain.
Acting bullish and at the same time foolishly, wishfully wishing on a fallen star.
