The Brainyard

The moon shone on the silent graveyard
Sniffing dust of dieing footsteps of mourners
Subtle echoing dirges rekindle old tassels
Forgotten sleeping fires leaped from sages past.

The cool evening breeze blew over the earth
The weary living seek repose from the day’s toil
Solemnly I strolled this very hour the ranks
Where forerunners lay in perpetual sleep
Their cradles neatly lay in rows of reminiscence.

The cool rain has watered and sodden the ground
Yet they stubbornly refuse to germinate
The cock had crowed yet they remain asleep
The cool gentle breeze to pacify them they ignore.
Why are the living shunned by the dead?
Perhaps the dead are angry at our mournful pity
Or maybe they are full of many regrets in retrospect
Of what should have been done that was left undone
Behold the graveyard has become the brain yard of ideas
Replete with so many lofty dreams that lay untainted
Brilliant masterpieces wasted on the alter of indecision
Complacency has murdered ingenuity in cold blood
Beloved, hearken to the hoarse voice of wisdom
The green leaves take a cue when the dry leaves fall.
The earth is starved of sane ideas because they lay hidden
Buried in the graveyards of procrastination.


Weep not when I die, and place no RIP
I do not seek any “Revel In Procrastination.”
So against all odds I set forth limping and crawling early at dawn.
To let it be brief but powerful, altruistic and memorable.
So help me God.

By
Dela Bobobee©
21/10/2006