A Dream: On Death

Written by: Mustapha Mosi Gomina

If for some reason, 
breath abandones me
And pipes in pride to 
muse an eldern glow
Then think I past the 
odds of chastened glee
That breath is prime in 
death as seconds grow.

When past the borders 
stretched behind a gate
A saint be asking "how o 
how o how"
I shall engage discourse 
to mock this Fate
And curse "be made to 
flee, I plead thee now".

When strong remains he, 
"die", I say there hence
And watch the being 
embrace a smokey form
I shall then sing a plea of 
dusk-silence
While wings affright my 
game in uniform.

Perhaps I must despoil a 
room in Hell
Or wait upon the Lord to 
death, counsel.