Death Has Been Busy

With such a tall list 

and so little time, who wouldn't be?

snatching in haste,

ignoring the names of

those we held in high esteem.

Some i wasn't worthy to meet

so mighty, Hades should be honoured.

yet you lay your scrawny,undignified hands 

those boney, wizened wrinkled fingers

on their esteemed shoulders.

you dare to wrangle the life out

of those, way larger than life.

 The evil reverse-alchemist.

you take life and give dust.

you take the breathe away

and leave...

nothingness.

 a deep dark gaping abyss of

emptiness

You have been busy, no?

crossing geographical boundaries,

leveling caste mountains,

picking and choosing

like a whimsical shopper.

Raping and robbing

and looting at will.

I dedicate this poem to all those who lost their lives this year - too many to name. death really has ben busy. Rest from your labors, you will be sorely missed.

FEAR (II)

I fear that arms

Will hold tenderly

Or cuddle affectionately

This… this

This

battered body

Housing this

Tortured soul.

I fear that again

Another

 will face disdain;

That knee-jerk-reaction

To warmth.

The urge to flee

Or retreat, at best

Freeze or scream.

When he touches me

I fear that

I am seared!

For love I’ve no tears

To give or receive

Yes!

Scars from years

And abuse from dears

left me with fears

Fears 1

FEARS (I)

The fear,

Haunting and taunting

The scare,

Of you flaunting the something

The tear

Of you forcing and pushing

I hear

You shushing and shushing

Even now

After years of forgetting

Am bound

By memories recurring

Of how
Virtue lost
To lust burning

                                                               

behind the cassava stall

BEHIND THE CASSAVA STALL

glazingly staring into oblivion,

the glazed windows to the soul.

now reduced to a lantern,

those eyes that once held hope.

this quiet, lifeless, idyll, ghost town

replaces ambitions with raw survival.

Ridicules world view and wears down

sanguine bright-eyed lads

To melancholic tunnel-visioned hags.

behind the cassava stall,

staring zombie-eyed into oblivion

is a once feisty spirit forced to conform.

Some dreams  don’t matter.

They can be murdered or still-born

To give fighting chance to another.