Death stood by the road side
and swung his hand to get a ride
Many stopped by, but was never favored
And some came, but he never entered
When the road sirened my coming,
he rushed and placed a checkpoint at the middle;
my body became the car he rushed to enter at last
And eyes, his whistle for a clearer sight
He then control the steering of my body
Straight to his packing log: the grave...
Like an owl waiting for the night,
am here wishing for the sound of the trumpet.
Poet:
©Cheto
Death
Mohammed Cheto Jalloh
(C) All Rights Reserved. Poem Submitted on 01/10/2020
(1)
Poem topics: car, death, night, whistle, straight, grave, middle, poet, sound, control, never, body, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Previous Poem
Next Poem
Write your comment about Death poem by Mohammed Cheto Jalloh
Best Poems of Mohammed Cheto Jalloh