I have come to be
And I am not going back
To the darkness of the night.
I have tasted of the loneliness
Of the moonless night
And I am not going back
To the silent night.
My world is broken
With the unwitting curse
Of servants leading men,
Leaving me stuck in the rut
Of maimed dreams spilling
Through faded deeds
And now it is an echo
Of what it could be.
The world have emptied
Of beauty and truth
And cursed beings rule
Like kings bedecked with
Gold and broken promises
But my limbs seek home
And the music calms me,
Moulds me and keeps me.
You think I am sane.
You think my words
Dribble from the lips of wisdom?
No, my friend, no.
Insane, I roam the edges.
I lick the cream
Of the tip of broken lips
And swear the sun is cool.
I caress the bee's sting
And whisper the song
Of those who we have left.
I am not a saint;
Drunken, sick, foolish saviour,
I am not a protection
But I keep the weed hot
And I smoke with the broken
And the free, the lost and the diseased.
Yes I die,
And I die slow
But I die free, breathing free air,
Standing on both feet,
Living well, loving light,
Keeping hope alive.
Dream on, cursed fools!
Live on, breathe on
Thinking I keep up
But children, numb me,
I creep on in the darkness
But I am not one of you.
No, I am not one of you.
A PIECE OF PROSE
He pushed the pole deep into the river and pushed. The river moved apart sluggishly and let the canoe through. The river suckled the mud and mosquitoes muttered through the silent afternoon.
The earth seemed dead but it was a death that was suspicious. There was a certain watchfulness to the gleaming mud. There was a silent that spoke louder than a roar in the air and every living thing on the water seemed to know this. Even the birds flew with silent wings.
The heat sucked the wetness from the river but the river refused to quench the sun's thirst and the sun, angered by the river's temerity burned like the furnace of hell.
A few bugs seemed to ignore the silence and move about, shopping for food, fighting to breathe, sucking air with lethargic waves of lazy air.
He pushed the pole into the muddy river and ignored the suckle of the earth trying to claim everything to the bottom. Slowly, the canoe dragged it's wake along and the shore drew nearer with each dip of the pole, each push, each grunt, each plop of suckled breath.
Two eyes watched the canoe crawl through the mud. The eyes blinked then sank beneath the water and the swirl lf moving bodies slowly rippled through the river. The canoe swam on, unknowing, uncaring.
A soft splash and the ripple disappeared. Then a head filled with two big eyes and lots of teeth emerged from the water close to the canoe and the grin widened in anticipation.
He bent and picked a lantern and hung it from a pole standing from the canoe. The lantern swung with each suck of the pole in the water and each surge of the canoe through the water. The eyes watched and the teeth grinned.
He passed the eyes with a suck and a surge and then in a flash, a machete that had not being there flashed in the early night again and again and again and the eyes thrashed in sudden pain. A net that floated beneath sight tangled limbs and soon it was done.
The river trembled and bubbled but he remained quiet and watched. Blood slowly pooled about the thrashing body as he watched then soon the body stilled and after a while, it bobbed up like a balloon in the sky.
He gathered his net and drew his catch into his canoe, then he pushed the pole deep into the river and found his way home.
AN END
©warpedpoetic, 2018.
