THE DEATH NOT READY FOR

By Glen Don

I AM TIRED

Kill me but not with your hands,

tell me to commit suicide,

tell your doctors to allow euthanasia,

because I am not ready to die in your hands.

Kill me not with your hands,

we once worshipped in one church, your suit was elegant, I was in alb and the floor, it was cassock,

I took french leave, to serve my stomach,

before, we walked in same streets; what i know is that you were inside chauffer-driven car, to me driving my footsubishi.

I gave you job in exchange of my sympathy, and for your million tithe,

For I am not ready to die gruesome death in your hands.

Kill me not with your hands,

I see heavy boots on tar coming for my live carcass,

because I have frowning face for your bitter fruits, that were once sweetest seeds,

yes seeds that made me to give job.

You're my doctor,

let me die not in your hands,

euthanasia is illegal, and inject me not with the vipers to maim my body,

treat me as your patient, because I have cancer that demand caressing.

Kill me not with your hands,

tell your nurses to be kind to my fellow patients,

words they spew are cackle of barren hen, inflating us carbon monoxide,

I choose to suffer, than dying in your hands.

I entrusted you for my love,

yellow for blissfulness, green-prosperity, and black-Africa,

I am thine friend, ye ma traitor,

love me please, I beg for your love.

Burn me not in Gehenna of Sulphur, and you in tranquil paradise,

quench my thirst, and feed me more of your lies, to make me survive this hot coal,

tell your "god" that we are suffering, tell him to send angels to rescue us from furnace,

hello 'Caesar'!!, the plebs are dying.

I choose to survive but not die,

not at the hands of your men and machines,

not of your loquacious threats and bickers,

Kill me not, for I'm not ready to die.

By: Glen Don

👏👏THANK YOU FOR READING👏👏

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