Hurled Into the Depths
The winter night in Kachikau does not offer a gentle frost;
It drops like an iron sheet across the unpowered cattle posts.
And I am buried alive in the familiar dust,
Wandering the perimeter of a village that sleeps while I disintegrate.
The stars above the Chobe sky offer no map, no light;
They are just cold, distant eyes watching a man lose his grip.
My own chest became the traitor that signed the contract.
It traded my sanity for a handful of plastic illusions,
Hurling me into a darkness so heavy, the local clay refuses to absorb it.
Psychologically, the skin still walks, but the inside is a carcass.
I am a hollow gourd left out in the sun until it cracks,
Stumbling down the unpaved roads, dragging the wreckage of my own name.
My thoughts look like the red mud after a slaughter,
A mind reduced to the cold white ash of a fire that ran out of wood.
There is no clinic in the district that stocks a cure for this type of rot,
No traditional elder who can read the ledger of a ruined soul.
I just carry the weight, step by heavy step, into the dark,
Knowing the soil beneath my feet keeps the receipt of everything I lost.
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