Death
(For Oyintarere, a dear friend, R.I.P.)
In the dark, icy quarters
Of earth’s depths he resides
Jealously guarding his barn of harvest’d souls
He is Death, the eternal terminator of lives
LIVES!
Lives so radiant! Pregnant with dreams!
DREAMS!
Dreams which ne’er on paper express’d
Dreams which to any living being were ne’er spoken
Cruel fate!
Yet we watch helplessly
As he plucks the brightest of lives
In a senseless orgy of senseless rampage
Oh! My pity is abundantly shared amongst those poor souls
The eternal separator he is
The merciful dispenser of euthanasia he is
No time he wastes he in heartlessly putting suffering souls
Out of their painful misery
Endowed with an outstretched skeletal arm
Armed with a cold, rusty bladed sickle
He is the Grim Reaper
The eternal ferryman of souls
Ferrying merrily poor souls
Across the cold boundary of existence and death,
But I bear no morbid wish to be reaped or ferried
E’EN WHEN MY GRAY HAIRS ARE RIPE AND READY TO FALL!
For I shall stubbornly cling unto continued existence
E’en till the moment the doomsday trump shall sound.
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