DEATH Poem: DAWN OF DENIAL, by Teniola Balogun

I waltz to answer the subtle knocks from the terrace
A man stands in the beauty of dawn
Lost? Stranded? How far has he journeyed?
The door is opened; It is needless to say ‘come in’
But O’ how polite this man is —
Standing still on the terrace, waiting to be welcomed in.

He dons a black cloak and I am left blinded
Whenever I try to peek at his face
He holds a scythe and I perceive he wants to play gothic,
And his hands so grey, yet his grip is firm,
In the beauty of the blooming red sun, he stands,
Come in, come in. Leave the terrace.

The door is wide open,
Just this midnight I blew the candles on my cake,
And I left you a plate, a piece of my cake,
My wish is to see ninety and chickens with teeth,
O’ I left you a piece of cake,
But this man doesn’t eat. Doesn’t celebrate with me.

What is it then you seek?
You smell of nothingness and your aura eerie,
Your cloak is ageless,
And o’ when did it get so cold?
This man I believe is meek,
He is waiting for me to take the first bite.

But I swallow more than my cake,
My fork has found its way to my throat,
Cough, cough, cough,
O’ how uncompassionate this man is,
Would he not tend to my discomfort?
My body lays cold, I suck in my last breath

He closes my eyes tenderly like I was his beloved,
Nihility was his face before my eyelids obey his grey fingers,
Is this what it feels like to be dead?
Dead? Who will tend to my visitor?
My deathly adorned visitor.
O’ how bad a host death has made me become