Our dreams are rolled
Into a single page of blankness,
Each awaiting death in queue
Like Ibadan passengers
Into the pocket of haphazardness.
Our hands are not dream killers,
They only hurled the choices of their heart
Into the secret ballot of ‘change’
Like an eye lingering
Upon a choicest dress.
Now, we will spin our dreams
Like 1 – 2 – 3…
Into the dark scene of the night,
Each to bargain death in dearth’s stall,
And pay in installment.