Unsung Penners Poem by Fawole Immanuel Taiwo

Perambulate I feature in a trance.
In it I was flaunted duo phases
In them I eye twain factions
Differ in looks and operations,
But similar in objectives.

The first phase is an anthology of scoundrels
In black appearance as of agents of hell
Looking ghastly when looked upon
In hands are weapons
Desperate for directives

They are the visitors unwelcomed
Who dare not be spurned
With amity with night
And enmity with light
They visit and impinge with startle.

This sect never abhor your handwork.
They are also paradigms of hard work.
Your reap, they want their part.
They are the ones who depart,
Making the sower a vanquish as of battle.

On the other phase of my trance,
Coterie of political patriots I discern in reluctance.
Though with this post, they aren’t sweet.
In air-conditioned official suites,
They administer their masked aspiring doom.

In hands are pens
That bleed against their yens.
The pens are approximately mesmerized
As the unsung penners through them materialize
In response for solo boom.

A pen can but be acknowledged with its bleeding
When it is not styled a weed.
A poet can but be gay with his penning
When he is sung to the growing.
The unsung penners deviate the orthodox.

Through the compromised pens,
They lay foundation for their yens.
Undermine, the unsung penners reap from the world.
The pen they non-sensically broadcast a boss to sword.
A perfect imperfectly flaunted paradox!