Monday, July 9, 2012

...this is 19 April Tswarelo Mothobe

Your doors wide open with an embracing breast
Sat me in the discomfort of an unfulfilled reality
A nudging at my peace
Scotching in my emotion
A fruit hanging strangely off the branches of an unsuspecting tree
Dying (or are you just pulling my leg)
Dead, with a clear knowledge of the end
I asked once
Has it started again?
That journey whose end we all know at the beginning of every relationship
Has it started again?
I feel more afraid than free
More text book than me
I am ruin trapped within my ignoring my beckoning emotions
Whirling up into this frustration of unspoken word
I am logic ridiculed by this need
To respond to my heart but then again to my respect of you
I feel like a man grown old constantly looping in first grade
A hopeless romantic
Biting her bottom lip in response to that need to get paid
An old soul in a new reality
Drops of rain in the lifeless limbo of the concrete jungle
A free man that just won’t leave the toiling at the plantation
Hating his each sweat on his brow
Hating even more, the urge to wipe it off
I seem unable to wake from this un-reality
Too real to conceal my fragile mediocrity
My steps are heavy
Walking down a road I have walked before
Reworking a formula that didn’t work previously
The answer being love in case you might question it
The question being you and my promise of the infinite
Did you truly have to touch my token?
Plant this idea in my conscience
To me,
Life is living it
Death is not
Denial is the premises and plots
And Love
 Love is calm in the face of death knowing we lived ours
But then again
“Ours” could just be this word in my mind

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