Beloved, at whose house will we sleep tonight?

We will all rise,

forgetfully by night as He stops by us.

The cold old breeze will creep our nerves,

unveiling the mystery into the dark.



At whose house will we sleep tonight?

The winds alongside the crawling

night sounds will lead us into the grave.

One after the other, willingly or not,

cheerfully or disappointed, our feet will cause

praise and irritating sounds of welcome.



At whose house will we no longer see nor hear?

When our throats get strangled and the bloodsuckers

filter our death from breath.

When our eye fearful resist seeing,

our voice hurriedly speak in slow tempo and upbeats,

and suddenly shut…

Death has…



At this house, praises, and taunts will be heard;

and our replies will be unaware.

The ragging coffins, the smell of dust will be common.

Our tender bodies will sit within echoes of murmuring.

The soul of our soul, but the body left to grim.

© Yaa Walker N. 2020