Talking Brought Me Here...
based on a West African folklore tale...
Alone along a jungle track
I heard a groan of agony,
so terror-struck, with bow drawn back
I peered behind the mango tree.
As round the buttressed root I stalked,
a foetid stench there retched my craw.
In disbelief I saw who talked;
a fly-blown head on forest floor.
Before I gathered up my mind,
a single swivelled eyeball sphere
looked up, then with a sickly grind
he cried out, “Talking Brought Me Here.”
Fast I fled in blind confusion
from whatever spirit faction
caused such gruesome animation
on that scene of putrefaction.
Tearing farther from the spectre,
not a thought for what was said.
To some village smoke I vector,
babbling loud, “A Talking Head!”
The people gathered to my shriek
then from his hut emerged the chief.
“Who dares such evil here to speak?”
he roared in regal disbelief.
“I speak the truth and tell no lie.
I’ll lead you right back to the place
so you can see with your own eye.
I trust in some reward, your grace.”
He brought his troop of warriors
who mocked but still with eyes that feared.
Some thought my tale nefarious
as on the grisly spot we neared.
A putrid stink hung in the mist,
the skull still there upon the ground.
Shoved forward by a soldier’s fist
I called the head to speak aloud.
The only noise that uttered back
from his fixed cadaver grimace;
the scurry of a greasy rat
creeping from its cranial crevice.
The chief unsheathed his spangled sword,
“This traveller takes me for a fool.”
His judgement done, no further word,
I lie here dead in my own pool.
Be wary friend to who you speak
if you should see a sight so queer.
Stay silent or keep words oblique,
I know, for Talking Brought Me Here.
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