When mental states gloom and aberrate,
Infantile faces fume and evaporate,
leaving darkness denuded to nakedness.
Excluded happiness makes the taste of sorrow sour.
Tomorrow's flower perishes before the ploughing hour,
or even before the seeds get to be devoured by the sparrow's father.
Suddenly, morrow vanishes, like hollow blemishes
when one gets stricken by perplexed multiple savages.
Complex audible bondages
fold the wounds of speech
so when I utter each and every word employs sham.
Then I deploy verbal troops to slay victims that smell
vexation in their life span.
My plan by writing this is not to increase your woe
but to decrease and spew out the facet of my desolation.
My purpose is to give meaning to the image that haunts my imagination.
Give it a meaning, write until something comes out crawling,
until memories fade and walls come down falling.
Gather me all the galaxy's great vocabularies,
Go back in time and talk to slimes that dance to wind chimes
to somehow rid themselves of contagious melancholies.
Give me the portion, the words, instructions, the rhymes.
Somehow this feeling, this thought or this thing should be extracted.
The hymns, the palms, the dreams, the slums, the poems never to be recited.
After all the climaxed idyll what am I left with?
Emptiness or everlasting bliss?
Does it stretch or does it plateau? is it a Myth?
Perhaps veracity, like the blue
up above.
Image Source: Pixabay.com
©Vincent Mbatha
A.KA.
