Last Days Of My Dirge Poem by Benjuzzy Okpuzor

The night is cold as
As death,
So silent as the grave,

Death has taken the best
Part of a man!
The witch night cry from

The babe's death at dawn!
Murder in the mouth of
Babe's

Blood in the hands of kings,
Tend to your tent oh Israel,
For who dare to face Pharaoh

And free the Hebrews from
The slave of death!
Let the untold tales be told,

Of misery and myth, religion
A relic, sold like gold to
Faithful followers!

But a delirium of death!
Yet we find home and
Hope in that crested scripts,

For there is hope in
Hopelessness!
Science holds no

Conscience, but kill the
Unborn before it's time!
Who do we run to!

The winds are blowing
The bosom flowers away,
Wondering why the fools

Fly to avoid the inevitable,
As we all fall under the
Heels of our hubris!

This globe is cloven in
Two!
Dead and the living!

Here comes the days of
My dirge, find home
Under the cover of this

Coven, till the last sound of
The trumpet, and the days
Of doom has ended.