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.
Copyright © Victor Mufaro Dzaoma | Year Posted 2011
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