I pass by the grave

I pass by the grave
to offer sands to the dry leaves

A thick wind offer its soul
In abundant grief

It point to my feelings
With kind words

Death calls itself, the children of men
Not length of days, not hours in wealth
Pack clean, for time is but a stolen ring

Stay alive, for your dreams would witness
The beauty of its deeds
In the night, you fall asleep


Image courtesy: pixgood.com


About Michael Ogundele

A writer, ardent reader and lover of nature. fell in love with writing five years back and I've been engraved in her arms ever since. I share my little way of writing poetry and reflections based on Catholic faith and Spirituality on this space. I hope you enjoy reading as we ride the same chariot to the leafy greens. Do follow me and together, let us jump into the ocean of my ink.
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