When Death Dines On My Dress Poem by David Olusanya

When I'm gone my ghostly way,
do not grieve or grow a grey.
For I must give back to the soil,
that held my feet and tendered my toil.

Do not rage my wrath with grief,
else your lives shall too, be brief.
For I choose to go like this;
Leaving life's treasuries and all the bliss.

Man is all a dress of debris
and bit by bit shall he return to refuse.
For if the moon shall shine not at noon,
then birth and death, is as night and moon.

I would love to see your smiles,
when I'm faraway a million miles.
Sing me sweet sublime strains;
Oh! How I'd love seraphic serenades.

When you lay my remains low,
worry less of where I go;
Be it hell or paradise,
or I wander like the flies;

A man's belief stands his judge,
whence it leads, he cannot dodge.
For man is born of a free will,
to earn him pearls or peril.

Thus when I go while I'm green,
for my utter most reason, don't be keen.
For a sage sees in his seat,
what a lad nudge to peep on his feet.

David O. Olusanya