Crackling flags snap proclamations of our joy.
Egos and opinions and arms flung and raised
For progress, however brutal and bloodied.
Past saviours sullied. We our misfortune praised.
A tentative creative that hopes to hail as a published poet in the days to come. South African from the uterus to our current date. Durban will always be my first hat rack upon which I rest my heart
A lower-middle class working class hero, working the salt mine, suckling the teat of the Industrial Machine.
Who we are is in constant flux, but she likes to consider herself lamentably human.
Seeing the woeful destruction of her home on this glorious earth has driven this particular poet to attempt to bridge the gap, and connect the minds of others to our shaking grounds of reality.