DISSIMULATION OF THE saints

Recalling the days in senior high, when youthful exuberance was so high.
After the numerous inter school games, Achievers are exalted with numerous names
Then ladies begin to chase fame, Guys look out for a pretty face
Just to cut the story short, one entertainment night brought campus shock
After the “End Time Movie night”
Come see us in good spiritual heights
Even angels were less holy:
We served God with our hearts wholly
Forging to please him only
It continued but for a week, And spirituality became so weak.
To the things of the world students became so meek
Just like a teaser, we often keep Christ puzzled
Wondering why he was bruised, remembering the tears he shed
Pain builds heat in him like fever.
Come see our people in church, Even without space they would perch
Eager to give their substance, Dining with the Lord as if by chance.
Not giving the body of Christ the essence
At home, office and Markets, Christians are no different from others
Malice, Corruption and envy erupt like volcano
It’s an awe how none can say no
The world being churchy, and church being worldly
The so called dating, a visa for fornication
That unholy courtship, is emptying our arsenal for spiritual battleship
Let’s shun hypocrisy, adorning ourselves with integrity
None is righteous, yes not one
But He died for our sins to be gone
May this season end our acts that cause Jesus grief
This is my message in brief
Live each day reminiscent of the blood he bled.
Enjoy each day like it’s Easter.

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WHEN I GROW UP

Now I don’t know what to think, but some day it will all be in ink. I look without seeing, am I even a human being. To me, everything exists without meaning. My language is a cry, but I only calm myself with a smile. Today I take milk, but tomorrow I will break bones. Now am wrapped in silk, but soon I will wear clothes. Hmm! They leave me in pampers, am now among toddlers. Both the young and old handle me. Love and admiration are all I can see. Sometimes how hurtful it can be, especially when bathed by the geriatric. I have no option than to accept their plea. In fact a little smile does the trick. I am now a boy but frankly, am coy. I can’t even cook but I can eat yolk. Where is all the tenderness, where is all the care? How come all this harshness, why all these snare? My ideas are not significant, as tiny as an ant. All my vocals create fun, commonly ignored with laughter. I hate this pan; maybe, I should sound louder. But my cry is an unnoticed plea When shall I be free, I wish I ...

YOUR own PEN

Something mostly divine, Sometimes, it's ours to define. Unlike the plant called Vine, Destiny seldom has pine. And it is our duty to prune and refine. From the feet till we see the spine. It may be a good omen, To which we shout Amen. It might have a fault to mend or dirt to filter, Which might make us think that God did falter. But we can write our own destiny. Yes, we always do. Remember that road you used to the mill, The particular person you talked to, Has it not been your own will? When you wanted to learn, Even when in prayer you did yearn, You took that training seriously, And you passed out successfully, That was your own destiny. That was your pen on paper. When you write, no one can alter. I am the secretary of the God you don't know. Now wait while I print yours out to show. Written down by you as white as snow.

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