Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
two men walk down a deserted street,
rehearsing stories of yesteryears

one told the other about the sea
of drunk ******
of drunk *****
of island girls
of island gales
of itchy groins and yellow skin
of comrades buried in watery grave
of staring death in the eye
of salvation and peace he found

there was a glint in his eyes

pray tell,
he said to the other's listening ears,
what adventure made you this sad?
what tale turned your gold to sand?

he sighed and plucked a roadside flower,
pulled off the petals one by one,
stooped and placed them beside his feet,
gently he, crushed em, one by one

one man looked on
and when he finally found his voice,
he quaked:

"I'll always be here for you", they said.
Then they left.
i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,

rowing ripples of sorrow,
formed by droplets of tears

that moon-walked down her cheeks,
like silver lines in dark clouds

running like water fall, down a hill,
falling with deep sighs, with each clock tick

every drop into the river sings a song
as she rows along:

'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'

too late

there were days of sunshine and plenty,
when the wind was art and poetry,
how much of him was loved?

there were days when rain was heavy,
when affection was your vanity,
how much of him was loved?

now, by untamed naivety
and itchy ears of the gullible laity,
you laid off, like Jonah,
the plot of your journal,

tell me,
how far are you from where he drowned?
not long, yet you miss him sore?

for along you row,
deep he sank and swam,
calling and pleading and hoping
you'd, for past's sake, heed

but your sadness waved back,
like stray dogs wave tails,
you couldn't, again bark,
when you met your fears,

not so long a time,
'time is the balm'
you claimed, but look, dear dame,
who's got no healing

i still dream about my lover
crossing 7 rivers on her old boat,

on lonely nights of cold
and faint moon lightning

her voice floating in the wind
that swishes west to east,

while an interlude of distant thunder,
rumble in low solemn tones
the song she left unsung:

'take me deeper than my fears/
do not taste like my tears/
fare me well to yonder shores/
do not draw me to his voice'
chickens still wait for corn
by the door of my granny's kitchen,
where sun once rose with a daughter
in skin of gold, and set with a son,
with silvery dreams

little girls still dance in twilight,
clad in the nakedness of innocence,
their chests bare, where ******* ought to be,
their scarves wild, flowing in the wind
and their voices climb palm trees,
in a bid to beat the boys to their dreams.

little boys form a group of toughlings
flooring the other in smart fast moves,
wrestling for fun, and raising dead dusts,
dusts of their forebears, who warred,
and set boundaries they'd grow up to meet:
and then forget unwritten bro codes,
forge new laws and grow cold,
act brave and grow old...
watch dreams fade into the dark

and the song of wasted years
punctuated with short sighs
shall form a new language
that tumble down our throats, tasting strange,
yet worth the dirge after all

adieu is the song, and
the circle goes on,

life

— The End —