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Relebogile Makhutle Poem
Beneath the black sky’s heavy sigh,
the dragon curls around its own shadow,
eyes glowing like stars drowning in sorrow.
It has burned kingdoms,
tamed storms with its wings,
and swallowed the roar of a thousand warriors
But tonight, it weeps.
Each tear is a molten jewel,
falling slow,
cracking the ground with the weight of ages.
They say its tears are poison,
but I have tasted one,
and found the salt of a lonely being
that never learned how to be.
It does not cry for the death,
nor the kingdom turned to ash,
it cries for the lullabies
no one sang
to the child it once was,
before scales toughned
and fire replaced breath.
So I sit at by side,
unafraid of claws,
listening to grief echo through the grunt and bone.
And when it looks at me,
I see myself
a creature built for survival,
aching for peace,
pouring the world’s weight
into the dust
as tears of the dragon.
Copyright © Relebogile Makhutle | Year Posted 2025
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Relebogile Makhutle Poem
I walk in a world painted with charm,
where laughter drifts like sunlight,
where hands are gentle and hearts are soft.
Yet I stumble on the broken echoes,
the half smiles and misfired warmth
the ones the world seems to have set aside.
I have watched the golden pass me by,
their steps in sync with the universe,
while I gather the fragments left behind,
learning that solitude is not punishment
but a quiet, fierce companion.
Alone, I sharpen my edges,
I claim my own rhythm,
I dance in rooms built from my own light.
I do not wait for the lost or the lovely,
for I am enough
without the handsome, without the kind.
In this crowd of misfits,
I have found a throne of one,
and it suits me
better than any hand could.
Copyright © Relebogile Makhutle | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Relebogile Makhutle Poem
I fell in love with a dangerous man,
a man whose shadow walked ahead of him,
whose eyes carried the silence
of graves unmarked.
He spoke in the language of fire,
his whispers smelt of blood and incense,
and when he touched me,
I felt the trembling of spirits
too ancient to name.
His love was not tender
it was sacrifice,
it was ritual,
it was the smoke curling from midnight altars
where I stood trembling,
offering my heart
like the lamb that bleeds without protest.
I should have run
but desire bound me tighter than rope,
drawn to his darkness
as if my soul was already promised.
Now, when the moon rises,
I hear his chants in my veins,
and the night itself bends
to the memory of his hands.
To love him was to be devoured,
to drown in a river
where no prayers reach the surface.
And yet...
even in the ruin of myself,
I ache for him still,
for the man of rituals
who taught me that love
can taste like death
and still be sweeter than life.??
Copyright © Relebogile Makhutle | Year Posted 2025
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