Strange World

I was summoned to the land of the mountain and cloudy gods;

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Those that tamed our clan with a mirror, holy book and the sword;

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Their darkness was overwhelmingly thicker than the covens of the black,

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They smoke like a chimney to commune with their gods with garlic rods;

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At their abode are gloomy angels that stand in ravens cloaks;

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Those martyred for the mundane fleshy feat;

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From their cleavage flows the source of murky greyish dip that hid the sun;

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The darkness is at their horizon, hovering at the tip of every wreath;

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I know It beckons... the end of the world,

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The apocalypse have sucked out every tiny air with its wooden pipe,

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Those pipes that connect our world beyond the path of redemption;

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The air is gone, so choked we are yet the harvest of the world is yet to ripe;

Poem by Olorunleke Odubote