Chair By Sunset Poem by Ben Banda

Chill cringes, the throned one fidgets,
Darkness rages and raiders plod by.
Around his stars, his stare is flung__
Once, heros now zeros snuffed.
Far, promise of doom, rumble storms;
Chairs’ plantain’s roots are deepest.
The moon is late, and are the paths
For the drummers stuffing in kitchens,
And so on the chair sways, are his.
His falls, by his forlorn are spoken__
Alone for long or forever may be,
For his whistle is rusted and busted.
Upon his torch, peeps his mind
Back-flashing; as once their bearers,
Long sunken in hunger in thirst,
All mock in skeletons besides his chair
And so does his torch, well blown out,
And so sweet is his sweat thin,
Stuck in greed on his throne,
In his just chair by the sunset dipped,
His doom closing in, closing in silence.

(June 2005)