They say I should write about life but what do I know?
Perhaps it is okay to speak of what I see.
Is it okay to speak of what I witness?
Isn’t she a sweet paradox, a box of tenets with opinions of outstanding contrariness?
Isn’t our existence a doxology that opens with a stream and closes with a flood?
In Africa, we are to hold our parents in reverence,
This is true respect, they say, the honour that our children will one day serve us.
This brings the length of days that will our life colour,
But if I did everything my parents told me, I would know misery and squalor.
She falls in love, they are airborne.
They levitate despite the weight of decision and cask in the cloud-light cottony cocoon of emotion.
He gives her motion; she rises and falls to the beat of his saddle. He makes her feel alive.
Love is why we live.
Yet when her eyes behold their entwined limbs, her love in the coital embrace of another woman, she wants to die.
I was content for I knew she would never lie to me.
When I asked her what was wrong she said, “nothing, its fine.”
I went to bed with a smile and woke up soon after to the chokehold of her contempt for my believing “its fine.”
We twist and turn and ask the world to stay still,
We ask for a minute and take several away;
Taking what we cannot pay for from eternity,
We ask to have and once we have, we ask, we ask, and ask away.
Because somewhere deep inside we are dark.
We are dark and greedy.
We are selfish and silly.
What is good for our hearts speak but we do not hark;
So we fight with forces we shouldn’t for things that we mustn’t have.
Because we know nothing about life,
And see not that life is only the time it takes to finish dying;
And time spent here must fulfil a yearning,
A task that helps the world we live in;
And eases the passing of all our neighbours who are also leaving.
Isn’t life a paradox?
Babies’ first cries are for the truth they know,
The dark begins to take us right from the pink cuteness of our first glow.