Deadened Poems

The Silence Before The Flame

Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.

The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.

The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.

I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.

Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.

I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.

trepidation

trepidation becomes a crime,
when you're homeless
and taking up room,
in the warmth
of the lamp-lights
to stay safe,
where there's cameras,
The corporations
regard you worse than
a police horse's deed
The late night
of clubbing on the beat
and I'm not talking
the choir of a night scene
but those so wearily
and just trying to sleep,
told to move on to where
but anywhere but illuminating,
sink into the foul darkness
you don't pay any taxes,
They're so empty
of empathy
in deadened souls
and once loyalty
and hundreds
of thousands
money taken
greedily
are buried to
pockets.

idle musings

apology from heart with eyes smiling
that ego spawned aberrations be healed 
a simple task yet difficult for some
foolishly frittered is the gift of life
soul deadened to throb of the cosmic hum

Our dilemma

We’ve donned this form to feel love warm,
caged in space and hemmed in by time,
memory of heaven wiped clean,
so we feel helpless in life’s storm,
deadened to pulse of bliss beat’s chime,
light of soul remaining unseen.

To have the cake and eat it too
requires us to remain awake,
recognising life is a dream
but how then will rapture renew,
if awareness applies the brake,
on flow of love’s dancing moonbeam?

This is the quiz we need to ace,
feasible only with God’s grace.

Death Walks On Divine Path

In the maze of forsaken wasteland the tired traveler,
breathless, can’t respond to the summon of unseen caller,
stepping out silently at the fringe of the hazy horizon unclear.

In the twilight hours the distant bell tolls,
he can’t perceive where, but knows who calls,
waits deadened before the ebony curtain finally falls.
                    
The candle has melted fast to the end mark,
the shredded shadows of the frozen feelings lurk 
in the inert mind getting starkly petrified in the dark.

Glacial senses feel God’s aura in warmth bestowed,
as He paves within terminal quietude the benevolent road,
and walks providence alongside death to the heavenly abode.

The sound of warm footsteps destiny doesn’t miss,
as the soul is released from the clutch of unfeeling abyss
and fuses with the supreme in the embrace of eternal bliss.

Wring the Sweat out of your Shirt

    A wall of heat down on you bores
      enervates your every pore
    The fiery sun you implore
      ‘Who can take this anymore’

    Your heart is deadened, your brain is fried
      There’s not enough fresh air to sigh
    Wring the sweat out of your shirt
       Hide your body’s baked-in dirt

    But check outside, just in case
       Hey, what’s this your arms embrace
    Drops of rain now splash your cheek
       A fresh wind blows from mountain’s peak

    A moment ago you’d surrendered
       Thanks to Heaven need be rendered

Forsake Me Not

There is nothing more to be realised 
When God’s Grace is invoked and 
His mercy doth flush and cleanse
A carcass so parched that
 Its once beating heart stops
Dormant Broken Empty Nothing
To be replenished just in time
Malicious ego deadened
Fear of its return a dread.
Please God never leave me.

Torture transaction

The attentive window sits bitter and alone,
As vindictive vines of envy become overgrown,
Darkened clouds fester, poisoning slowly within,
And discordant branches haunt before dreams can begin.

Resentful shadows form as the candid clock ticks,
Fettered to the rhythm and ready to transfix,
Smothered in indifference, deadened in distraction,
Trauma for tranquility, torture transaction.

Dragged from security as hateful hands clench,
And disfugured hopes comfort, discarded in the trench,
Tangible laughter mocks as teeth tear sanity,
And now, death echos loop, in search of humanity.

The Empty Man

The Empty Man


Saddled with the darkened years
Fogged with broken thoughts
Chasing crooked spirits
Drenched in ethereal fire
Deadened to raging emotions
Sentenced to a deafened silence
Dreading the coming phase
Of fleeting victory and bleeding hearts
Thus, seeping the dredge
Of frothing suffering
He strides along
With the brevity of thoughts
Floating to a hollow future

Fleeting Victory

Fleeting Victory


Bleeding hearts
With deadened glare 
Sullen faces
Staring at the darkened phase
Looming keenly ahead
Staggering at the eloping future
along the sneaky passage
As the future elopes
Without a trace

From the Bones of the Dead

The poppies grow where the bodies lie.
They grow out of their skulls;
Out of bullet holes and discarded limbs—
Anything is their home.
And in this brutal massacre,
A young poppy seed finds solace:
Somewhere to grow old.
The poppies reach upward,
Each like a spindly, quivering finger
Pointing to the heavens—
Come rain; come shine.
They are an unwavering beauty
On such a deadened and weary land:
Flattened and trampled by the lost souls,
Still searching for their justice
And for their lives back.

Sunset Reveries

as swans slide across lakes - sunset rays sway to autumnal reveries

ambling across swirling helix - of deadened cinnamon foliage 

mocking greenery framing skeletal bones - of lifeless roots crackling 

the warmth of your deep saffron gold aura - harvests the depth of our love

eclipsing rippling mistrals - simmering amidst auburn horizons

Dead

Dead's he who binds himself in his own cage 
Who lets his love consumed by his own rage 
Like withered pile of leaves in yellow wood 
Where flies flocked to tear its flesh where it stood 

For, deadened heart is as good as the dead 
Like a log that just lies in its own bed 
Like a flesh filled with aches but does not bleed 
But inside, worms of pride gather to feed 

1st place

Marionette

A marionette to the mind,
Whispering fading schematics,
Deluging the heart and soul, in a 
Juxtaposition of good and evil, 
Betwixt Heaven and hell, amidst
Snowdrifts that swirl before my eyes, while 
Spiritless shadows restlessly carouse;
Discordantly, far from reach,
Vagrantly ambling across
Deadened Arcadias, glimpsing 
Floating embers, in wake of 
Vivid firestorms, swallowing me whole,
Faltering with every step I take,
Decelerating towards the escape I seek,
As it rhythmically scars my timorous nature, 
Awakening the monsters hidden deep within-seeing red-
Bleeding out miasmic toxins, as noxious
Spores erupt, immersed in a haze of austerity, 
While it seeps and saturates, throughout 
Malignant wounds exposed, undulating between 
The storms of push and pull, as daunting
Tasks, of rippling sequences, splits my 
Chasmic core.
Soulless footprints are all that remain, as 
Moon tides wash ashore, ebbing away
Towards dystopian depths.

The Peril

You are all vehement and gutsy
Putting across even the wrong forcefully 
With vulgarity drawing a bow or curtsy
From a righteous man smeared shamefully 

You care not for truth but to win
Teasing an argument to tear down whoever dares
With heads coining every justification for sin
To wear out the fervency of any man who cares

That’s how the world is under the evil one’s sway
A lordless codeless lot living for pleasure 
Taking license of way and stray
And their wildest wishes are their treasure 

They squander their prime
It is theirs to spend as they please
So long as the sin is not a crime 
Their deadened conscience allows with ease

How many wishes have we heard from the frail
And how many regrets on the deathbeds
What does the realization of failure entail 
That the end now unravels the soul’s dreads

Yet the cycle continues in the midst of counsel
Ye be wise that you descendants may live
Sit and reason only in a Godly council
And Godliness shall be all you take and give 

K. Muitherero.

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