How would it be
The last strike of my pen
When death shall grasp me
Come like a crimson tide
When I will be no more
Will it form part of my eulogy
Would it live on beyond me
Would it spark emotions
Would it coil into my perfect wreath
I don’t know
But then it will be
My last poem
Would it engrave my goodbye to my kind
Or would talk of my errands
I hope it epitomes Shakespear
Lives beyond my century
Shutters my haters
Rises my buddies
Burries my worries
And ressurects my esteem
Let it be one of a kind
That would move with drum paces
Tune with strikes of Nyatiti
The traditional guitar
Let it hold my past and seek into my unknown future
Thanks to it may it be said
“He was a legend”
But I will go six feet knowing this
It shall remain to be
My last poem
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