Thursday 7 February 2013

The Skipper


I was sitting there, 
resting on an arm chair wearing 
a dark blue bullet proof vest 
with a glass of kahwa in my hand. 
Black polished shoes 
grey trouser and brown stripped white shirt 
waiting... 
waiting for that bullet to hit my chest 
which is meant for my demise.
Sun rays shining in from the window glasses 
making my hairs sheen in golden radiance 
  so warm, so bright, so scintillating. 

A congregation of birds 
Flying incessantly in an enormous 
 flock of a particular formation, 
Portraying a shade of betrayal 
On the canvas of a peculiar, dusky evening sky. 

I was ready for my Caesarian death 
From the hand of my 
Friends my brother, Students my children.
To whom I was a mentor, a God,
Their protector, there skipper 
But longer, not any more 
As all my power, my wisdom went squandering 
Just by the hint of greed and misconception 
And I will be slay and die 
Not in, but by the arms of my own. 

… And then came the moment, 
The ultimate tick of awakening confrontation 
The birds were no longer there, 
The sun threw its last peek 
From the horizon. 
I salute my last cheers 
To the sun and the eternal sky, 
As the window glass shattered 
So was my glass of kahwa. 
My gullet exploded by the bullet 
To form a rare coalition of Blood and kahwa 
bound together 
By my last breath. 

In this momentary act of artistic event 
Another bullet crashed onto my torso 
meant to pierce the blind heart 
But the shield obstructed 
That little agent of death. 
The impact threw me down from my niche 
As the blood squirted all over. 

The Skipper was no longer there, 
 Now... 
someone else will be anointed as 
The Skipper, 
Someone else will wear 
the delusional apparel of power 
So someone else will breed betrayal 
In the greed to become...
THE SKIPPER.