PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

A great man has sung his song
And gone.
At eighty plus and sung by the world,
Achebe had nothing to lose.
Rich he was,
But not by trading in mankind’s blood.
Fat he grew,
But not by sucking fetuses
Off torn tumescence
Of mothers that would never be.
Fortunes gladly pursued him
But a sage distance he rather would keep.
Freely to mankind he gave
And the bread of his neighbour’s sorrow
He never supped
With dead face shrouded
Behind Vampire’s cloak-
Behind Vampire’s politics.
In youth he was gallant,
In old-age grand.
Now haloed
And above everything his enemies
Would ever wish to be,
All that is left
Is left
For shrieking Vampires.

So, hush, Mr. n-o-b-o-d-y –
Or whatever pathetic name you bear.
Peek into a mirror
And shrink back at what you see.
It is called MEDIOCRITY.
Then, fret no more, restless ghoul.
Just crawl back to your grave.
You had your fill of blood;
Now back to obscurity-
Back to inconsequence
Where you belong.