A vetoed masterpiece

strolls across the sun,

crushed by scrutiny,

keeping aim firm.

The years

have failed to fetch rectitude

for the wailing voices

of the fated.

Those mused glorious days

trapped in the storm

go back and fort

in search of a way.

The fiery burning rays

Char the cure to an impasse.

The surreal odds,

stare the star in the eye.

Nonetheless,

the heart of faith bangs,

the clock of hope ticks;

in spite of what is now seen.

© Florence Ezekafor