When the night gathers around the darkness of your form,
You draw fast to the whiteness of your sleep.
Where colourless dreams gather and holds you tight.
You want to sing, you want to smoke, you want to live young with all your might.
But the end clouds into a creepy night.
From under bed, the shadow crawls out.
You're all alone, nobody to speak to or shout.
From your cupboard doors creeks wide open,
In prayers, you bead your shivering mouth.
Your room is filled with harvested souls.
Of shadows that only you knows.
In sleep, your unawareness.
Life, the fingers upon your form to trace.
Death, the red devil looking into your face.
It's longing wants to take hold of your soul.
For this might be your last night, alive.
Yet, you can't sleep, all with you is your Bible, cigarette and your bluntly knife.
Yet, these demons come again.
They fight over whom to invite.
To take over your old, wearily body.
From what demons seed to fill your bag of dreams.
To nightmare screams.
Within the stalk,
As you grow old.
For here in nights bewildering throw.
Hell enters our world to show.
The paths where we grow.
Possession abides,
When darkness draws your mind apart.
Over again, thinking to stop your life or to start.
To create desires.
Hell's burning in eternal fires.
Sleep well, old Angel.
Through your wooden crooked bed.
Beneath which is eaten by thick, black insects.
You hope and pray silently in your head.
Tomorrow morning might find you dead.
Or might be taken away by some demon host.
That once potrayed itself to you as a ghost.
A hunting journey you go.
All things that you already know.
Living a hundred years, is misery.
Living one day more, is luxury.
© Madinah_Writes
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Fragrance From A Black Flower
Poetry#1 in blackpoets This collection of poems is intended to give some account of the conditions in which African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this topic is...
