It’s a dark thrush
The sky is Spectre grey
My hysteria is mixed with the pandemonium of the Nightingale.
Eulogizing the Lord for the thickness of the Greenland
The trees are like strings of a broken guitar
My anxiety is now escalating
A ferocious beast is now advancing to my territory
It’s bloodthirsty is more than the avarice of Leopold of Belgium
It’s warlike gaze makes my heart palpitate voilently
Only to be awaken by the smooth chords of the Eurasian blackcap
~Davis Mpuuga~
A bottle of red wine moved
her along, as she wrote,
I feel too much, again and again.
Her cloud pale eyelids falling on dream dimmed eyes.
She saw shapes of memory
standing solid in an empty doorway.
The old women were gone.
Staring the waxy smoke appearing
from the candles,
after being capped with the brass bell
at the end of the snuffer.
She could smell them, the odor of candles.
She could smell, grief;
being measured by counted darkness.
Cold, numb, pale
Silence weavered within him
He started counting
trying hard to keep his gaze alive.
Empty words.
Blunt voids.
All of it.
The cool zephyr blowed
caressing his skin
but neither did it felt spring
nor the indication of a harsh monsoon arrival.
Rather a slow syncing sunset of a dead evening
And few sobbing goodbyes, some fake and some sincere.
For the first time, they pleaded him to speak.
After all the denied speech of his scorched throat.
He breathed out the terror
too profound for words
Realizing he was done, he is alive
but dead for the world
for anyone who ever cared.
He is laid in a casket
put down under the ground
with only darkness around him
but that isn’t something new
He was long gone even before they
laid the shroud upon him,
and the only diffrence now is,
I see him being included in prayers
of those whose love never reached him as a whole.
Poetry of an Introvert 