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Poem

When my eyes closes
And the black and white colour gone,
Let not your tears fall but, let verses of words be written to send my soul to its home.


When my legs could not move again and
The blood within has frozen,
Do not let out a deep scream but seal my soul
With a bleeding words that can not be uttered by any tongue.



When my face goes up and my mouth closes
Invite no professional mourners, but call out
The Ohafia maidens and the Nkporo queens
Let them pain my side with a broken verses of poetry
Sing a tattered song that could not be chorused.



When a history without pages is written of me,
A dirge accompanied with a whitish sorrow,
Write off the part of me that is in your heart.
Wipe away my name which you say with a hidden
Tears in your sold eyes.


When the children could not come close
To the log of wood laid face up and back down,
Let none dance from their hearts for me;
For a poet knows his true value when he dies.
Let no grave be dung, let no coffin be bought,
Just put me on the surface of the sinful earth
Let me rot and join others to rejoice.


Flower my side with written poetry,
A spoken words sung by sick poets;
For only a sick poet knows the heart of the dead.
Finger my head with penned emotions,
Caress my frozen brain with a skeletal feelings;
Do not mourn for me, no, do not morn at all.



When the world becomes silent behind me.
A dark image covered my future,
Know you that I am not dead but alive in spirit.
Do not weep for me; for a poet is better in death.
Do not put me in the fridge like a fish, I am not a fish,
No rites should be done, just leave me to go,
Miss me but let me go.


(C) John Chizoba Vincent
All Right Reserved 2016

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