They call it a jungle…

I agree.

Concrete trees blot out the sun

Pocked boles block out the dawn

Climbing people, a noisy lot

Shaky roots and metal top.

Lines snake between the trees

Skies cry…these paths slide free

Crevices aside, filthy rank moisture

Where ‘squitoes find sluggish succor.

Fierce heat lies low, unmoving

Sparked ropes twine confusing

No room to swing, yet fling they do

Noisy life to honk and deafen you.


Deaden you…

Belching behemoths taint the air

Old and new monsters roam the depths

Angry honks leave no room to tread

The art of Pedestrian motion is dead.

The air pulses…deep angry throb

Irate clouds hang low, poison crop

Its denizens reach up, drink deep

Violence flares, the weak weep.

I can’t sleep.

They call it a jungle

I agree.

Written by Emem Alexandra Akpan-Nya

About shakespeareanwalter

Walt Shakes(@Walt_Shakes) is an award-winning Nigerian writer, poet and veteran blogger. He is a lover of the written word. the faint whiff of nature, the flashing vista of movies, the warmth of companionship and the happy sound of laughter.

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  1. Wow *swoons…dies on Emem’s laps*

  2. This poem is just gbasky.

  3. beautiful poem..nice rhythm and flow…

  4. Am not the ARTSY kind..so i really don’t get the poem….but from the first comment…it seems nice.

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