When Silence Must Prevail
A poem
Still your senses when they mock around but yield to the authority of the grave. Let the stewards of the underworld love their exercise and may the tumultuous fury of hell boast to assail a soul whose hands are muddied with guilt.
Your days rattled the serenities of the earth for you stormed the world into frenetic chaos with that frightful, morbid face of horror. You made mercy sacrilegious and stomped on forgiveness as a disparaged virtue.
The tent of your heart was leased to vile, ruthless demons. They whispered their instructions to empower the fury of your hands and their unimaginable rage boiled the temperature of your eyes to seethe red-hot.
Your fingers traced devilish literature as you imbibed the unholiness of satanic words — acquiring confounding powers to upset harmonies and the flow of concord. Terror knighted you king and the insignia of havoc was the badge that left you cruelly medalled.
You proved brutality was the signature of your element and rape was your decision to torture. I saw your settings stink with despicable abuse so murder was the inevitable penalty served for defiant, tyrannical rebellion.
The earth was sorely aflame and the clouds could spectate your brazen atrocities. You slackened the hands of time to extend torments of exhilarating delight. Yes, you were your god, coronated by your murderous schemes in all lofty supremacy!
But I see you confined to a pathetic bed as the atmosphere pulsates with sorrow. The menace of unseen microbes proves viable to topple your offensive strongholds. Now your flesh has lost its suppleness so you’ve deteriorated to a dark, scrawny skeleton.
Silence is the officiating umpire in your room as your dread has vested men with powers to abscond. The hollows of the underworld are open so death with its long retinue ascends to bring you home and to the shrill, eerie voices of the damned screaming to haunt.
You’re stretched rather awkwardly in bed and your vision vacillates between the land of the living and the abode of pitch, horrifying darkness. Slowly a sensation numbs your senses so you slip off your body like a man slips off his boots.
Swiftly, the icy hands of death arrest you with a quick, fatal extraction and bid you for a long, dingy walk. Nail-biting terror is all that surrounds and pervades so your body knows perpetual muteness at an hour when silence must prevail.
© Valentine Nnebe 2024
All Rights Reserved
