The gift-givers have stolen the hands of time
Alas!
They jump on rooftops pulling from their sacks all the memories that time took away
The healing of time drowns where crocodiles brood the cracking mud
Their tears, forlorn!
Looking for the gory beneath rocks
The wind whistles like laughter that has escaped the hymns of ghosts
Let’s take a rest here and untangle the knots of weary hearts
When we are born, we know that we no longer fear the silhouette of the sun,
Where dreams fall in love with promises
Memories are not for saying goodbye, but for saying hello to the faces that chase the moon
The nocturnal of the night is illuminated with the neons of dancing eyeballs
We don’t dig graves to bury atrophied limbs, but to hide our covenants with sins,
Stealing the treasures of our nightmares
A corrupt heart loves the broken souls roaming the darkness
The aesthetics of fetishes are hidden in the language of whispers.
Nkateko Tshabalala is a self published author of Poetic Flair, Amazon (2018).