Wednesday, September 30, 2015


The drab sameness;
The cold grey and wet screen
Of pouring dew blanketing the view
Of nature’s mysteries,
As this bus sways along
The treacherous road to Benin
Is all I see.

The stifling heat as windows shuts in
Sweaty armpits, makeup and perfumes gone awry.
The silent individuality
Of the passengers as they stare
Into space with thoughts
Of a painful past or a possible future,
Is all I feel on the bus to Benin.

I am a bard, set to document
My people as they live
In pain and in pleasure;
Nightmares and sweet dreams;
Tears and laughter.

I am set to paint,
My hand poised on the blank canvass,
My colours mixed
And my models prepped.
My prop is scattered across the universe.
The world; my setting, the theme, the plot
The story, the protagonist and antagonist.

I stand alone, outside and watch.
Pause and stay here and there, look and see;
Watch and weep.
My heart is cleared, my soul bleeds;
My spirit bent, yet I watch and weep.

Let me paint
Till my hand’s bent.
Words, my colour; Pen, my brush.
Metaphors, my work; Paper, my canvass.
Poetry my life, my love; my pain, my death.

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