The Glory Of Death Poem by Ugochukwu Aneke

My soul smells soft dust
That do burst the yolk of my wet eyes
And decay being its thrust worst
To the host flesh that must allow death.

Wealth flees when the die is cast
The spirit of death drinks not on duty
As life is swift like the strike of raindrop

But if peace dwells with my broke friend, death
And vanity sits, on the throne of life
Then let me be enslaved in deep friendship

So, if my grief is strengthened by my belief
Then let it be brief and kill my stiff sorrow
Let me thief from the ban of relief
Nor die in mournful strife doing so.