The night seeps
through the cracks of my mother's
hut and the tin lamp light
dances with the cold breeze
as my fear peers into the blackened yard
to find the monsters
stuck harmoniously in my head.
Crickets sing collectively
when darkness sweeps the earth
and scattered in the wind
are floating fireflies
reminding me that I am a moonchild
regardless of the blood
dangling from the tips of my hands.
The mind races
as does the blood pump in my chest
unresolved matters
are attempting to resurface
and the cuts under my sleeves
insidiously wish to voice a few dark things
but the soul remains grave silent.
The devil asks
for one final chance and I
gladly follow him to hell
braving every fall
that is slowly replaced by a wall
blocking light from my drained spirit
before he settles for just a dance.
I stand on
the ashes of everything I dreamed of
and cry myself a river
unclenching the fists that have
defended this bruised ego
from the wrath of my bloody altars
praying for dawn to get here sooner.
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This is for you to interpret. However it sits with your soul. I think everything in me is looking for it's rightful place and dark thoughts are no exception. Poetry is a warcry at times for me. It is the rhythmic flow that unburdens my emotional baggage and strips me back to nakedness.
wambuku w.
