A Yearning…

Since you left,

my tummy has been a tomb for carcasses of butterflies …. ©

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Comfort.

Comfort. The golden word…

Held with glass hands and uttered with unshakeable resolve. We are told it is an invisible sanctuary,that we should seek it. But when we’ve found it,we are encouraged to leave it… For it suffocates growth. ©

Her gait.

As if tired of carrying all that voluptuous beauty on herself..
She moves,
Slumberous …
.. with clumsy finesse ,
Her thigh long locks adorned with colourful beads moves in accordance with her every hip sway.
Her limbs carry her body like obedient lackeys…

….the rhythm of her strides, a nature choreographed gait.
As graceful as a well fed feline.

Poetry Monarch.

Chronicles Of A Petrol Attendant.

The Broody Hen (A Narrative )

Conversations With The Notepad.

His Stare

I still remember his stare,cold brown pupils dim with fatigue. His retina crimson white polluted by anger,a patch of daily tears down his cheeks meander.

Large gulps of saliva down his galet ,his lips cracked by dryness “letha le-phone!!” ,he demands 

His stare begs…

“Awungizwa..” He dips his slender palm into his pocket,draws out a sharpened rod.

But his stare waves a white flag,his ciliary muscles slacks,his voice cracks.

he blinks,his stare is replaced by tears.