Inmates abound in each mansion,
with no work but rest to earn—
snoring out whirlwinds,
and frightening the growls of jaguar,
until struck by the crude screws
fitted as guards to subdue
the eruptions of the rusty doors.
A prisoner and his treasure chest.
The mystery of the world.
Unfinished are the plans,
and buried are the dream castles.
Old inmates deep asleep,
and new members lowered to join
the rich ones in their meditations.
Soon the mourners will leave,
like adventurers late to the mission,
and the band procession will retire
home with their trumpets to tea.
For warmth is the cold of the night,
fewer worries for blanket or gas,
and silent—the language of the learned,
telegraphing in a diatonic whirl,
murmuring the wisdom from beyond,
‘Men speak not ill of the departed.’
Paul Iwunwa writes from Lagos Nigeria. As a poet and writer, he advocates the rights of the downtrodden and a world built on social justice. At day, he works as a marketing and communications specialist, and at night he burns the midnight oil to enrich the poetic landscape with his words and rhymes. His upcoming poetry chapbook, The Miners, explores the socio-political dynamics in his home country. An admitted football fanatic, Paul feeds his addiction by watching Chelsea FC on weekends.