Letter To Mr Dead Poem by Peter Edigah OBIAJE

Dear,
Mr. Dead,
why stride into our path unannounced,
why cast your shadow upon the living
with the violence of screeching wheels
instead of the quiet dignity of sleep?
I speak to you directly,
for your footsteps have echoed too loudly
in the corridors of our grief.

Tell me,
why choose the Christmas season
Why stain the colours of our celebration
with the grey dust of mourning?
Why trade our carols for laments,
our feasts for trembling hands?

And why, Mr. Dead,
why take her at forty-five
a young woman still ripening with dreams,
a soul yet gathering the harvest of her labour?
Why pull her from life's table
before her story gathered its final chapters?

So hear me,
for grief itself has given me the courage to speak:
Obviously your visit is inevitable hence,
When next you come near my family,
let it be when our backs are bent with years,
when our hair has surrendered to snow,
when our bodies, having danced long on earth,
finally whisper that it is time,
let your visit be a gentle closing of the book,
not a violent tearing of its pages.