The Fugitives Poem by Etim Onyam

They are the murderers' hands
Stained with bloody streams;
Lurking behind the veils of powers.

They are the corrupt faces
Blemished with the stains of loots;
Hidding under the immunity of offices.

The fugitives are not the murderers on the streets
Forced to embrace violece for defence
And now running down the shadows of distance.

They are the thugs,
Whose arsenals have power backgrounds
Working under the auspices of unseen faces.

The fugitives are not the escapees of mass arrests
Hidding under the cover of the bushes
Where cold marry them and insects rade their skins.

They are those enjoying the comfort of their homes,
The perpetrators of woes in angelic disguise
Whose huge accounts insulate from interrogative questions.

The fugitives are the enemies of conscience
Lurking behind the shadows of drugs
To execute their masters' ill-wills.

They are the directors of the police,
Under the guidance of the police
And we are all the fugitives of our conscience.