Phillips Tayo 2 years ago

Always Hurry!

A memorial in loving far-away memories of my aged friend-Alan Rogers who died in UK since May 8, 2022 after a protracted battle against cancer-related 😷 disease. I didn't see him in person but I feel his open-minded mindset given our chat amidst the Brexit exit debacle then in his country. *He has gone to rest with his LORD in the bossom of his creator. May his soul rest in peace as I confirmed ☑️ his final exit given his last days he shared with all his Facebook friends with his update on his treatment and post-recuperation telling us all his days are numbered.We prayed but he accepted the inevitable fact and fate of DEATH. The Flag has down on his profile pix and I met many loving tributes for him. Phillips Tayo July 15,2022.

Sitting outside open roof,
The darkening sun oozing heat,
Then, I saw the Kingly guards,
Walk past my hut in my village,
Since now mocked morbidly,
Yet, wasn't seen nor seek,
I did hitherto the similarity,
Walk away your way,
I wink more into the blur,
To see a prophecy passing.

Of what life is these times
We are now of the old ages,
The king's knightly pride,
Will just beckon to a simplicity,
Of heads down final rite next,
We are all the kings at peril,
It is your death-the eternal claws.

The casket maker,
I won't beg not your bidding,
Tell him as he walks stridently,
That we knew his knees,
Silent slouch feet 👣 dry
I am at the open door,
Awaiting my fate of time.

For me can't be an exception,
The woven basket surplus,
Many made at the slight smash,
Of him on any all, sundry
Oh! Still figurine hawk,
Your discretion dicey,
To kill hinging hopes,
To see the finality,
Not of Ages of birth rights,
Not of the riches, Poor favors
You can lay at your will,
Your whims aren't caricatured,
The souls are silent, still
Next dust-to-dust.

Tell Death,
Ye Pall Bearers,
That I am face-to-Face
To demise nay, my friends are gone.
I saw them nitty-gritty,
If I am next, nest am I,
For the outside I am always,
Striving to catch his glimpse,
Then, the king guards return,
I lived life living not lit.

Open up!
You air of whitish blush,
Let me catch his glimpse,
Not dirge of his fickle fear,
His flair, spirit struck then,
The signs on the walls
Shows me his slow mien
To hurry down lanes latching
Of Men gritty grotesque beings,
Of many like with many chapters,
Of many unfulfilled 🛐 prayers,
Of many unreturned Thanksgivings
Not climb unto the podiums,
Yet our walking on bare sand,
We return back and buried.
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