Lonely Graves, a poem by Paul Iwunwa at Spillwords.com
Marek Studzinski

The Lonely Graves

The Lonely Graves

written by: Paul Iwunwa



The lonely graves.
A prison with many cells.

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.’

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