Street Criptures Poem by JOSEPH MABIJA

For those with no tools to their name
Those who dig their gardens with bare hands
To grow crops and feed their kids
The street scriptures is in the air like the smoke of a healing herb
Our own life tale in black and white
Our options and position disclosed
Randle rhymes maneuver
The missing verses of the bible
As statistics proves, death approaches us in a rapid pace
Trouble remembers our faces
It gives us a tight hug every time we meet
Eagles suck our blood to brighten the colors of their fathers
It is a flip flop trauma, it is the scripture from the street point of view