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Poem

The thunderous thunder

Came thundering in a turmoiled town

Timing my timeless time,

June, you played a fowl gain

You can’t spare us even for once

That we may eat the fruit of our labour

 

Who’s next?

That we may celebrate tears

…Festival of tears

Nay, leak our rotten fingers

After eating the Idenyi Ai-iko meat

 

Udaburu Ogo Ukpoji

Falling fellow lonely

Your face tattered, like a pampered baby

Swollen like a bread soaked in water

Infected with sickle cell

 

Your broods are no more

Behold the grave poking tongue at you

Your are now an lopped tree

Behind a shroud of secrecy

 

Don’t count us out

For we are all victims of the grave

‘Cos to our maker we shall go

To give the account of our talents

–Grave, my son

–Linen, my daughter

–Casket, my eternal cradle

I owe thee a poesy accolade

For devouring my lungs asunder

 

Now the gods are silent

And the night is close by

Who knows-

Who’s next?

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