By
Learnmore Edwin Zvada
Loners die alone
When a rainy day dies, together with a few unfortunate souls
I ponder at the notion of painting a colourful picture to put up in the small room in which my body will rest someday
It’s a picturesque vision of life or lack thereof that does seem to linger too long in my eyes
Like a distant mirage…with the loneliness of a dog dying in labour
But then I realize, I’m no painter and a few drawings I have in my studio are just but an illusion illustrated into a fading inartistic shade
Still my words die alone, without the back-patting of a bemused audience,
At that wretched distance upon which they forage
Still I walk the mile, forever tailing everything related to fame
And I realize, if fame belonged with me, I wouldn’t take it to my grave
How violent fame is, how cruel are the paths toward its mansions and castles
I remain alone, without honour, without substance, except within my own verse and prose
The world smiles on them that know how to be seen
How can I remain a part of this voice; this, a covetous congregation that only seeks fortune upon fortune?
So I settle my soul on a quieter whim, as I type away a few notes on a map to the closet that sometimes enshrouds my lines
I know that I’m to find my ticket to sanity someday and the funfair that exhibits cold poems like mine does promise such
Soon enough, I gather, the world with its agricultures will single me out as a weed but that won’t defuse my freewheeling
I rhyme like a winter song, my lyrics form like a mistress’s desire for a man
My typing dances into gay letters that constantly rearrange into romantic phrases
Syncing emotional words with a lullaby’s undertones
Sleep catches up with me, finally: the everlasting slumber that ensnared mum,
And I too am to be a part of this shadow-chasing marathon
Loners die alone, washed up onto the shores of a solitary island where fame holds no sway
On Spring Night
A thorny amaranth grew close to my grave
And it never bore me cold fruit to rot atop my headrest
But on spring night it recalled my solitude
On whose eve I napped with the stars and the moon
I remember ghostly patterns that ran about the hem of my bridle
‘Be merry within this unfit distance’
Their colours always flaunted such malice
In all of treedom, a lone barbed tree called me up in thorny affection
Tiny spring leaves carpeted the scrub around my headstone
Prickling prickles tingled my vive
Coercing my extremities to scratch a fundament of knife edge rise
A saltation against a sullen heath ensured
As bones monkeyed about in a bath of carefree alacrity
And cheery again we were, my bones and I, merrily floating in leafy cadence
Enwrapped around the notion that perhaps we weren’t dead after all
Perhaps Not My Overzealous Foot
Perhaps not my overzealous foot
I cannot take you on my date tonight
You continue to add injury to my amorous impediment
I have gone from date to date
Walking this forever path with you
You are slow at your step
Every time we set out to hunt for ‘the one’
You linger to caress those shapely pebbles by the brook
I cannot trust you to let me go once you are tamed
The scented flowers of the forest lie in wait
For that day you take me into the April sunset
I cannot discern the colour you are
You go from feisty to dull
From glum to twinkle
Someday you’re heavy at my standing
To bend me over when you are too lazy to heave
In a near mo you could fashion another disturbing gait
Wobbling under the scrutiny of a potential mistress
Stay this expedition my foot
Perhaps and another day as I implore
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