Gunshots From Heaven Poem by muideen olawale jimoh

The earth’s magma shook from the roar of thunder,

Piercing through the night’s eye,

Like Christmas songs in December,

One wonders if it’s a blessing or curse from on high,



The pauper defies the wailings of the heavens

On his already worn-out skin,

Bent on reaching the tavern before its closure at eleven

Just to drink his life into a new spin,



Molten metals are fired

From the masked men’s barrel

And the thunder belches anew

From gulping their sound.



The pauper lay lifeless,

Trampled upon by the rain unending

And the emerging moon-shine seamlessly

Casting a shadow on a death untimely.



Was it the lightening or thunder?

Or was it the fire from the beast?

I wonder,

But just close to midnight, the vultures had a feast.