The grave's belly
is like a busy firmament
on a day the sun kisses the earth.
The beautiful birds in it
are perpetually free,
unperturbed by the lethal thorns
that cease not to keep
the sons of men awake,
away from their bedchambers
and unsure of the morrow.
They have no trouble soaring sweetly.
They have no days,
they have no nights.
They have dumped
every whit of fleeting vanity
for which they partook
in the surely pitiable fate
of the offsprings of mortality.

Men who wait
to fly in the grave's belly
worry too much
about the cold and dark gate
that ushers them in,
even though they know
it is only a matter of time
before they pass through it.
They fail to live freely
so, they fail not to die swiftly.
But only then can they fly
away from the gory nooses
that pull perpetually
on the frail necks
of helpless mortal men.

© Ogbole Agala