Timothy-Paker Nwaorgu | + Follow Poet |
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The Convict Part 4

Didactic old man
Fiddling with fright
As tears curled down 
From a bemoaned and fretted face
To his foaming lip
The tears thirst bitter taste
Spiced with desired regret
Of an action already finished
Crime begets an accidental skirmish
~
His hands
Those quivering hands
Protective to a fault
The palpitation; his heart
The ‘eye of his soul’
Full of surprises and confusion
His heart and head 
Were at war with intent
One seem to agree less
Which is it?
~
His old bat given as
A gift to his nipper
Now lays dirty as a witness
In the gore colours of crime
Glittering red instead of white
As day time
Further dim its light
It would be called that such
Was the gift, no, tool of death
~
A van with siren screeched to a still
From a distance that only time covers
Few men clad in black disembarks
With live weapon of coercion
Their face sternly professional
The cacophony from the siren
Mocks the victim -
The dead one, the twiddling one
And the old man – which ever it chooses 
A new home seems near
~
Cuffed with cheap silver bracelet
And dragged out from the house
To the crying van
He took a wild look aback
His blood has turned his heart to a scar
The one that will forever illuminate
Him, it will shine exclusively
In this midst of his darkness
Where love loves hate
What a betrayal of doctrine!
~
They led him inside the van
After few steps on heavy feet
He was whisked off the city
His heart too was heavy
Heavy with thoughtless thought
Enmeshed in what he dreaded
And what he has always fought
He put his old head out of the window
And breathe his last fresh air
While the wind stranded his gray hairs
~
Hours followed closely in minutes
Like eternity
Till time raptured 
At a very big iron gate
Where no one ever forgets its date
Of arrival – departure is the uncle of death
It comes when one less expects
Days,
Months, and
Years if lucky

Copyright © Timothy-Paker Nwaorgu | Year Posted 2014

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