Stampede at the graveyard

The dead didn’t die equal
Death, a trickster it was
In the peregrination that beckoned
Death came so close
The jugular armed with tubercular headache
To him, the time was still green
Death defied daunting guts
A war without blood
Fought with pains and thoughts
A thud landed on the rusty roof
The taker of life stamped its foot
The door betrayed trust
As it flung open for the vector of sorrow
He died, but death did cry
His time was still green

The dead didn’t die equal
But the dead still lives
In the dead silence of the dead den
His full fledge flung him up
He spoke through the waves
Obedience crowned the messenger of his voice
The air
The whistling trees bowed
To his odyssey in the graveyard
Signposting his existence
Julius’s ears sprung up
The voice pierced, he cried
Through him Lekan lives, he must live
Through the small gods Lekan lives

Now, the war of wits
A stampede at the graveyard beckons
Death must be buried
In the antiseptic bowel of its den
So Lekan lives, death dies.


Dedicated to the late Olalekan Obadimu