Cold and listless like dying patients struggling for air
With the blood of my imagination I brought back life
For I am a poet by blood, not cloned from impoverished stock
Long years of apprenticeship I hugged
Peering over the cold shoulders of inspiration
Little wonder this Amada of criticism, like eggs, fall and get smashed!
On the stony pavement of my elevated mind
When the oil get spent and the flame slumps dead
In floods they appear
Some to pay their last respect, others to mock
Thinking the patriarch of bards gone
Yet fear and amazement they flamed
To see the body not fed upon by worms
But an endless procession of words
Crawling out the woodwork
Written by: Ken Bena
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
