Nimbus

Glossy
sinuous locks
frame your
pointy little
face in
thick black
wisps.

Oh, what I'd
give to run
my hands
through the
strands of
your soul.

Mirrors

Entering a hologram

of perception 

and morphed 

deception.

There is only

one way to 

know what is real.

That is: to touch
(palms to thighs), 

to breathe (nose
to abdomen), and to

feel (in the way
only you can) for
your own

heartbeat.

The Falsitude of Creating

Is it possible to 

write and not be

a thief? Or is the 

very act of existing

stealing from the lived 

experiences of others -

not always those 

brighter or bolder, but

those dull and dimwitted 

too. Stealing. From those 

with everything. And 

stealing, even more, from 

those with nothing.

Perhaps this is the true

nature of the world.

Theft. By each and for 

each. Until we sit together

under a common blanket

of creativity - each weave

threaded by yarn stolen

from her neighbour's wheel.

On the Anniversary of My Death

The 19th of May 2002. I died a
certain death. You killed me. You,
the man I didn't trust but had no
choice except to. You broke not
only my skull but my spirit and my
soul, for at least a hundred years.

Today. The 19th of May 2023. I sit
adjourn to you. Why? I ask myself.
I don't know. I'm almost pleased at
the thought of your death, I think. No,
I correct myself. I couldn't be. I still
don't know that you weren't pleased
about mine.

What I do know is that neither of us
asked for this. You didn't want to break
my skull nor do I want your chest cavity
sawed open.

The difference is you made a choice. I
was endowed with a burden, that came
wrapped in a deceptive silk bow. In it
three adjoining parts;
                         forgiveness,
                                  responsibility,
and the smallest but strongest called
                                                          love.

Learnt Language

After being
held
captive
for
an entire
existence.

You've become so
accustomed to
the pain
that instead of
wailing a
grimace forms
on your face
as natural
as a smile
and tension
pulls
the corners
of your
mouth closed.

The whip cracks
skin open and
a sting
permeates. Blood
barely
drips
before the
next crack strikes -
Effortless. Fluid.

Whip-pa.
Whip-pa.
Whip-pa.

All of a
sudden you
realise that
the lashes
and lacerations
are at your own
account.

It's not a betrayal
of your
body unto
itself.

But the only
language
it's ever
learnt
to speak.

Wings

So much of my
energy,
life force,
chi,
is used
in daily combat
against
the oppressor.

What would happen
if for one second
I expended all
that energy
inward.

How high would I
soar
until they
decided to clip my
wings and have me
plummet to
the ground?

What's in a name?

Mine. Has
three syllables,
whose sounds
combined
are my soul -
who I've been
since birth.
Maybe
even before.

They, can
easily say
things that
define them
like:
aveugle 
and
sourd. 

But still
dare
to get me
wrong.