The Poet: The Drowning Watchman

Alas, the watchman was knocked off
from the watchtower.
His nose shining with mixed blood,
of guilt and innocence,
by heavy punch from behind.

Confusion in the game reserve,
what a sight to behold,
when the prey is hunted by the games!
kick him here, kick him there,
with a darling dagger
Stabbed from behind.

He is master of the game,
yet he cannot play the game,
of medieval chivalry,
there are no knights,
no more knighthood.

He is caught in the labyrinth
of inextricably muddy game
of his own making,
so it seems,
yet he cannot escape,
without bruises.

By: Barr. Murtala M. B Ibrahim

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