31 DAYS OF POETRY- DAY 24- DEATH IS... - by Chika Jones

Does death come in seasons?
Like the broken needles,
On the tongues of winded dragons?
Like the red of flowers in harmattan,
Or does it come through the hole of scarabs,
When brave young girls venture alone into the forests,
And emerge with painted hands,
I remember the lives of dead ones,
Like a kaleidoscope of ever changing sounds,
The baby's first cry,
The ratata of gunfire,
The thud of falling earth,
Ha!
Death is,
Death is a black skinny cow covered in flies,
The silent screams stuck in the throat,
Of yesterday's bomb victims,
Raining down, down, down,
Death is the fresh smell of water mixed with sand,
Of hope mixed with denial,
Of pain mixed with relief,
Of knowing and yet refusing to believe,
That we will no longer meet,
Beneath the mango, down the street,
Behind the house over there,
We will no longer dream,
Of big houses and bigger cars,
And we will no longer fight,
Over who jumps higher or rolls better,
Death is,
Death is the squishing of newborn maggots,
It is the silence that seals a coffin better than nails,
The tears that speak better than words,
The looks that say more than eulogies,
For here lies a great man, and a greater woman,
Who could have been,
If only she had lived,
But death is,
The answer to every hanging question,
Death is,
Death is not knowing how to feel,
When people tell you its ok to cry,
But the tears just won't come,
Cos when the sun rises on a freshly dug grave,
It sets on dreams and hopes,
On futures and aspirations,
On tomorrow and the next,
Ha!
Death is
The end,
To every new beginning.

(for Oluebube)


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