A Threnody for Obi
The dark stars loom on frontiers,
Dewed and muggy, grey and sodden to the comfort
Of the lashes.
We wave black banners, spirited with the
Toils of tears, cusping the edges that once
Bore beveled points.
So, where do we go from here?
With what luminous entity shall we light our footpath,
Seeing how dark and bedraggled,
How somnolent, how diseased the hermitage
Enmeshed in this reticulation of loss,
We should choose candles to lie ahead of us.
Such flare, wind-tossed, blink us to the
Direction of where we seek;
Where we should gather on wet heaths,
Speak in one patois of grief, composing dirges
In loosened tongues, and with pastels
That paint russets of tears.
Let us lament sotto voce, picking words to
Build woes in conflations.
At about the third hour,
When the dour components of groggy eyes
Belittle our senses, let us all, in one
Orgy of parrhesia,
Bullyrag Death's ingress at odd hours,
Rebuking strongly, its petulant arrogance of eternal filth.
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Comments about this poem (A Threnody for Obi by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu )
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