The Poet

He’s a mortuary attendant
His match, a whispering tidal flush
Masquerading in nothing like suicidal tide
Furthering hinterland the shellfish-diamond.

An uncut diamond, he but is
Sparking up the unruffled lilac noise
Shuffling on the eternal coast of
His forehead, ruffled and wrinkled.

Behold! Achilles’ cerebral cortex
Keeping watch o’er rocking bones
Gunned ‘til it sets to dawn
For the vapour, fame, to arise
Like Banquo bent and burnt
With flagging fluttering feathers too.

But for striding the yet
Nought is his, unless
Bowing necks to Macbeth’s stitch
Embossing on hearts
Badges of dancing darts
Rosettes of pure water
Splashed upon planes drilled with the feel of
Songs satisfying sole singing souls.

by Emmanuel Ibuot

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