The Ballad of Samedi

Here is a poem I wrote for class (begrudgingly).

The Ballad of Samedi

Death.

A sweet promise.

A bitter affair.

It’s like a rum that’s sat in the heat for too long.

Unquenching and undeserving,

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

Son.

Daugther.

Mother and father.

They all feel the grip of the grave,

Cold and unexpected.

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

Black.

A somber grey.

A vibrant white.

These are the depressing colors made to mourn,

Unfair and drab,

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

Dirt.

Filthy andclingy.

Harsh and swarming.

It’s like a virgin’s first cigar,

Addictive and deadly,

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

Coffin.

A dark space.

A final place.

You’ll all be put in the ground,

Unhappy, yet uncomplaining,

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

God.

A higher power.

A punishable saviour.

He’s the one you barter your lives for,

Unflinching and unwavered,

But in the end it doesn’t matter.

Me.

A peckish being.

A horrid truth.

I’m the one who digs your plot.

Uncompromised and unavoided,

But in the end isn’t it supposed to matter?