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.