Poetry

November 25, 2015 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

By

Kitaka Alex

 

 

I SEE US IN THE WOMB OF A TOMB

 

 

I see what you see,

Do you see what I see?

The battle is between man and the mirror.

The mirror’s weapon is to stand stationary and watch

Behold!

Possibility allying with the forces of the mind.

                                                      To shatter the cohesion in the mirror.

 

The man through the mirror is –

To a woeful womb,

Faces, red and sulky, sneer and snarl resides there.

A womb,

                                                   Mellow with flourishing wells of forlorn.

 

A sooty wind drunkenly howls about.

It ploughs through giants of buildings.

Buildings caught up in the rapture of age.

But crippled and stare at themselves in rage.

The windows and doors suffering from pothole signs and symptoms.

Miserable chimneys erected on dead factories

Eject fumes

That battle with the air from exhausted and mistreated trees.

 

Behold!

This womb,

Overcrowded with marred vehicles.

                                                     Insane silhouettes are standing, gazing

 

Well versed that only birth conquers death.

Behold!

The naked stores,

Around their necks are veils of dust.

Within them, noisy and worn out appliances sit.

 

I see us in a womb of a tomb

I see us in a womb of tomb

This womb,

                                                                            Long woken up.

                                                           The sun, long quenched His thirst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Kitaka Alex

I am a Creative Facilitator, Writer Poet and a Pianist, in addition to being founder and Director of the Tontoma Poetry Session which is a monthly gathering of Poets and Spoken word artists every first Thursday of the month.

This session brings Poets to share their works fused with visual art,  traditional and contemporary musical instruments.

I am currently facilitating at In Movement, Art for Social Change in Creative Writing and Poetry.

Poetry is what I feed on for survival, Short Stories are the soup and the saucepan is the paper, my hands are the spoons and forks; that is how I survive.

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