Yaw Panfo, The Way to the Top

I see them here and there on luxurious balconies
as they grin out white teeth with one incisor
plated with gold sitting on strawberry gum.
Society cleaves to them—their measure of what taste like success.
Money magnet expends what your fingers count,
and the chair if your event must be glamourous
they are pitched atop by chance or random selection.
But what is the way to the top?
The labyrinth of many roads looped like fingerprints
or the tottering path of the sea coursed by sailors?
The way to the top some said lies in the city’s smell at night
and between invisible footsteps struggling for survival.
How everyone craves for the way to the top
but with weary will to cross every river, to climb every tree,
to scale every wall to see what lies beyond.
Afadu came from the other side and admonished
us to get a heart tried in fire
and feet swift enough to race the world over,
and he thought us how to become a compass
to navigate ourselves to the top.

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