THE FRONT
Going to war without weapon, I am not safe, I am conscious.
At the front, even the stones be tantamount of sword.
Bare hands of mine be a gun; my fingers, the sling.
An ocean of blood, a pool of anguish; here, onset of the end.
Fulminant call to nowhere; its all act of no grace, a mighty pity.
Victory over life and rancor of the end
yet I stand a soldier without weapon but a life to lend.
I fight to start not to end, I strive not to tarnish but to salvage;
my weapons so better they may, not those of ravage.
This is war though, the end of the end;
here, the end of the onset so I prevent.
©Dauda Onawola
IG d.phinix
@onawolaDAUDA
Going to war without weapon, I am not safe, I am conscious.
At the front, even the stones be tantamount of sword.
Bare hands of mine be a gun; my fingers, the sling.
An ocean of blood, a pool of anguish; here, onset of the end.
Fulminant call to nowhere; its all act of no grace, a mighty pity.
Victory over life and rancor of the end
yet I stand a soldier without weapon but a life to lend.
I fight to start not to end, I strive not to tarnish but to salvage;
my weapons so better they may, not those of ravage.
This is war though, the end of the end;
here, the end of the onset so I prevent.
©Dauda Onawola
IG d.phinix
@onawolaDAUDA
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