Dead Trees Speak (6) Poem by Orike Didi

With all powers
Bestowed on me
I make bold to say that;
‘I, the poet
Will have my head
Sit on my neck'
Not minding others losing theirs
For a lunch box of cyanide.
The crowd will come
And on exit dissolve into imagery;
They'll stand tall in my poetry.

Those who sold their souls
Were the first to lose their heads,
Those who played the ghouls
Were buried at midterm.

We did not dance on their graves,
We only laughed at them.