there his heart lay,
wilted as it was, growing more stale
by the minute, as the days when by,
as months skated, as years flew by,
he had a half life of two minutes,

a few second to live,
as the blood seep through his chest
with the dagger, resting firm
and sure, apparently shaking the
hands of death,
there he lay on the floor,
his shirt painted red by the morose blood,
his hands trembling,
now ghost began to shout his name,
because his soul began to rot even
before his body,
dead leaves falling and surrounding his corpse
awaiting the pit of death.

                                                 By Kakraba Afful