To Dead Presidents whose legacies are in death palaces,
I greet thee and thy will that made you gods.
We have lived as you rightly would
with tightened feet laced to this ground.
Conspiracy grows from your graves,
some say its a halo over your headstones
we have forgotten all about your deaths
and now, we have wielded stone heads,
we have begged with tied tongues
for our rusted-heavy lies coated with history.
Promises and truth have outlived the fire from our hearts.

To you o dead presidents
I know not where to knot my words from.

To Dead Presidents whose pages are 6-footed stories,
I write to tell you how freedom is the new chain.
I understand your cause only if you lived to tell me,
I know not what wombs these heads came from,
their grounds are corrupt as the internet
yams germinate after a day from its inner net,
the air is a fouled scent of peace
that waves around bodies resting in pieces.
To you o Dead Presidents like Fela, Malcom, Queen Amina, Mandela, Marcus Garvey, Huey Newton and Da Vinci,
my words are scored from a tiny little dust of nothing.

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