In a mirror's honest gaze, I utter...
Dear Thomas,
This is my word to you
Belief is a feast of the eyes
And knowledge-
The power of the mind
But are you wise?
Yes! Til the doubt feasts on you
Like a rat slowly eating
The edges of your life
Taking away everything-
Confidence, wisdom and intelligence,
Defecating trails of struggle and pain
Leaving traces of misery.
What a way to learn.

To the future me...
Believe in yourself
To the past, it was a good lesson,
In the present,
Like a farmer, you stand
in the middle of the field-
That looks everything like your life
Watching... It is a filmstrip,
Detailed images here and there
A few parched areas,
Dying blades of grass
Hopeless crops darted across the field,
But there you are - standing
And hoping for a chance of rain,
A miracle perhaps-which you doubt-
Questioning,
'Will it quench the dry earth?'

Alas, your sweat provides little moisture
To survive a few struggling blades of grass
That humbly open their thin arms
To receive a few drops of life.
They look hopeful, and grateful
So should you.

Lost and found,
Who thought it still exists?
A place of treasure and fortune,
Where lost things are found
Where my memories lay restless
Like my thoughtful mind
As I sit in a chair-and stand up
And sit again-and stand again
And start pacing aimlessly
darting across the room
Like my thoughts would
Across a void dark space.

Nostalgia-friend or foe,
Still trying to discern
Which one would it be.
I think of the good, bad, nice,
sweet-and bitter moments.
Gathered, like my memories
Packed like clothes in a suitcase
And from scruffy folding,
their texture is wrinkled
Like the skin of an old man.

I rummage through-searching
looking and hoping and wishing and praying
to find a perfect memory,
But all I stumble on,
Are moments I try to forget,
Memories of pain, and suffering
The pain of being lost-
and not knowing where you belong.
The pain of being selfless,
for people who never cared.
But with these thoughts, I gather myself
Questioning my thought-ridden mind.
Those that see me, think, a fool,
A madman who converses with himself,
But I had reasons.

Aha-I exclaim after finding the 'one'
I touch it delicately-but "don't **** it"
A voice whispers,
"Don't hold it by the head"
As the Ndebele proverb says,
'Inhlwa ayibanjwa ngekhanda'
A termite should not be held by its head
But what's that... Where... Too late, it's gone, lost,
Like a beautiful memory that slips my mind
each time I get distracted.