Victor Mufaro Dzaoma Poet Classicism

This Is Not a Poem

These are scars 
within my heart 
And tearless ducts 
on a face devoid of 
expression.
It is an obsolete 
manual in ancient 
hands,
Hands embracing 
the bends of a 
twisted reality
A reality no longer 
conforming to the 
commands
 Of an obsolete 
manual.
These commands 
logged off
Seek to amend 
deeds undone by 
the emotional 
impasse.
I am an agitated 
spectator of an 
awkward circus
Circus amidst this 
fracas of 
redeemed souls
Souls sold low by
The dollar value
Dollar love
Dollar worship!

I am a brother of a 
brother whose 
brother
Never stopped 
loving
The lovely cocoons 
of imitation.
Imitation without 
reciprocal 
comprehension of 
the concepts
The heart bit of 
earth centralized,
Till originality is 
taxed by an 
imitated formulae,
Formulae which 
rejoice in the 
rejection of the 
vernacular
When dawn comes,
We will already be 
down.

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