Lebo Bopalamo Poet I do not know?

A Quiet Ending

I love to write
about souls beaten in abodes hidden 
and the intense pain within
I choose to write
even when words injure everything
We exist in stages,
Some as innocent as children spinning intently
in a contrived whirlwind
Others testing the solemn comfort of 
motherly jest
On lonely nights we ride 
the stolen embrace of soiled distinction
While misery soars on the wings of 
forgotten pasts
And thus
I elect to write

We do not belong, 
We are a passing inconvenience of identity
and creed
separate from the chosen
A cadre selects his world,
blue lights and toast
We seek survival from the remnants
Still, we emerge
and continue to write 
and attempt to laugh

We defied
our innermost inflections to stay sane
Bore the twisted accoutrements 
of borrowed robes 
that defined our broken blackness
Cried in silence when winds ceased to carry
each defiant mood
And so the imposition of calm endured

Years pass and the writing ensues
Until whispers turn into screams
Turned these strands of nothingness 
into sins we must bear 
An eternal rejection of a wasted eternity…
an unbearable stage of this confusing lie
A writer’s dream 
A soul’s unbearable existence

I write again,
Words of this nature are pasted on fake smiles
and need release
Why write when none can see…
every sentence is a question unanswered
Why cry when none can hear…
our dreams rely on darkness to heal
But still I write
My stunted love requires simple words
to perish
The screeching pace of youth
requires a quiet ending…
and so I write

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