This Shall Pass

pressure on the treasure fire in the frying pan

as real as the mirage 
they come shouting defiantly 
in the mid-day sun

fear they breath 
apathy they sing 
hemmed on all sides 
feelings of despair  forlorn

preparing to throw away the sickle 
but I hear the song of distant lands

the unseen  more real 
the eternal more stable than the mundane 

and with face set as the flint 
feet quick as hind’s  

as the eagle soaring resolved as the ‘iroko’

standing until this whirlwind passes