My mind reeks of dead plots and unsung poetry,
Unsettling imageries, weak symbolisms
And mediocre works of art
Which flicker and fade before my eyes
Like a ball of light running thorough the woods,
Observed from a bemused lens
Before the final click;
But it escapes,
Vowing never to return again.
I still hear those starved voices,
Empty yet sharp
Like Father’s sandals on my bare brown back.
Even when I plead, it changes not.
For what is gone leaves a shadow,
A silhouette without a presence-
And I am left slamming my elastic palm
Upon my chiseled forehead.