Illusion Poem by Dr Anthony Onoja

Dark and slippery, twisted like wounded thorns
Shrouded by the pales from the dry leaves and seeds
As though the serpent came in the morning
When all men were awaken to their dreams
running the errands they bore from street
It came to pass he grew up pitied
in the slogan of men, all lost to illusions
Three moons, fourteen suns, crystal clear
he see the clouds crying, daylight becoming night
Drawing inspirations from the column of smokes
In his mind, nothing is fair but the weed
He is a true warlord, one that fights all men