Saturday, 30 March 2013

Dance the Death's Beat
By Mutiu Olawuyi

From his foamless tiny bed I picked:
Loneliest home it is; darkest sight I see;
And silence drums my ears; beyond bad
my condition-I dare not sprawl when pain me
skin far beyond bone in the palace of six
feet - unfit any lived velum during feasts.
Here I am - the home of emptiness;
the hut of hotness; the fold of coldness;
the termite home that houses worms and rodents;
I live with my long elapsed dead deeds.
Love is lost; my properties - now turn lust.
Once I was a cemetery passerby
waving and wailing, to my beloved, goodbye.
The other way I picture, I poke, I pare
and tongue their tears as my divine fate live me.
Finally I have paid - my last debt I owe Death...
Cry not; dry thy tears - my return won't come.
thy last abode soon too shalt be formed.

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