Whose ghost is this? I think I know.

His citizens are quite angry though.

His terror is dark jail cell
I stare him pace. I cry hell.

He gives his subjects a shake,
And screams I’ve made a bad mistake.

The only other sound is the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The ruler is furry, and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
Tormented with nightmares he never sleeps.
Revenge is a promise a man should keep.

He rises from his cursed Residence bed,
With thoughts of violence in his head,
A flash of rage and he sees red.
Without a pause I turned and fled.

In flight I hear a chorus of rigged votes,

Echoing in a terrain sign posted in blood ink.

By Collen Kajokoto

* The author is Zimbabwe a persecuted poet and critic of the Zimbabwe regime, who lives in exile in Germany

© collenkajokoto