kofi sammy morrison
The Creator strolls on a parched river bank.
He doesn't recognise His own Creation.
‘'This is not the Offin? Oti or Pra? ''
‘'No! definitely not the mighty Ankobra''.
He spits out poisoned waste in His quest to quench His thirst.
With a gnawing stomach He throws in a net for a catch.
‘'Ah the net is heavy, promise of a good catch.''
Entangled Parched white skulls and skeletons stares blindly back.
Nothing stirs, nothing comes. All is death.