As the day woke up from its cloudy bed
It appeared above the roof of my head.
I did not set my eyes upon the sun myself
But as the bell of time had done its part,
With the day tasting some form of light,
I knew the sun should be above
And that all workers should be prepared for work by then.
I had nothing to slap my sleep to bed
For joblessness has nailed my legs since when
The flute of time had blown itself for me to stop
My studies and then lead my way to join others who
Had nothing to offer the world but to be a part of
The jobless race, created by the virtue of a certificate.
But on this day, the sun was red
No yellowness crowded its surface.
I didn't see this just at first
But found out as I rose to take a walk to the bar-woman's pot,
From where each day I take my death.
The sun was red that day, I swear,
It was full of blood from end to end
Its diameter was not like at all
But became more red, from the centre where it was core.
I was scared to see this at first
For what evil could be at hand.
I thought it was the Apocalypse at sight
But it was not, rather it was a sign.
The sun had a purpose of its own
Of which it decided to revoke
The sun was still alive by then,
But it was no longer a sun
Rather a dead red ball.
Then it took me by surprise
That I was a sun too
Now red, now dead, without a head.
Just like the red sun deads itself,
Someone suffers my idleness too:
The littles on the streets
The poor I should have inspired,
To them, I'm the red sun.
And at the wake of each day,
As the sun come upon their heads
They see the sun,
Red as usual.
Copyright © Adewumi Benedict Olumide
All rights reserved
A hot contemporary Facebook poet
@ Mide Benedict (Temple Of Words)