The ink has run dry
there is nothing in these pens
other than this enticing pain
calling out your name
and with humility,
you readily avail yourself.
You see pain has its way with men
it digs a path
that you reluctantly follow
far away from the comforts of your notions
while stranded in seasonal conditions
you go where the pain leads.
The new place claims you
it inhabits you
wields your said pain like an armour
then turns those unshed tears to ink
to flood on blank pages
seeking to make its hold tamer.
With every poetic spill
your soul finds relief
the snail pace of how to heal
like building a bridge to the moon
taking its sweet time
yet it can't be coerced or helped.
You hammer against your spirit
tap on the fickle walls
that house your tired human
checking if they still hold
and those that can fold
and collapse on your damned feet.
I wrote this a while back and I am not sure if it counts as poetry but I was in a lot of unresolved pain and I couldn't get myself to write so I scribbled this somewhere and felt like it wasn't good enough for your eyes.
If it is,I stand corrected but if it's not then I hope you enjoy it if not relating to it.
Here is to constantly wielding inner peace. To experiencing serenity and it's unchallenged calmness. To silencing one's demons once in a while.
Wambuku W.
