Poetribute Poem by James T. Abel Adesitimi

Poets are few
But the pens are plenty Is like the world is running to his end
With no minute and hour paused to rest
Running as if to fulfil long-told revelation
Poets have all gone beneath the sand
The pregnant graveyards
Where they sleep with the hope to be born
To another world hereafter
Death be not proud
You can only claim the flesh
But not the soul
O the poets are few
And the pens are plenty
Hard are the words out.
To combat untruth in men