I flip pages
bearing the blocks of evolution
and revolution,
with windows facing measured light.
I bend beneath the weight of hope and plight.
The childhood door shrinks,
the branches in my courtyard outgrow,
and I mumble and whisper to the walls,
hoping they'll return a nostalgic ball.
The ball returns dipped in ink;
I crawl, I bend, but now I do not shrink.
He placed flowers in my vase,
wild as a beautiful mess.
He drew clouds shaped like laughter
above my head,
but now all I own
are prickled sheets upon my bed.
How can I believe
tomorrow's fruit won't carry bitterness?
Light crawls like a creeper at sunset;
half my consciousness slips into shade.
Old socks lie tangled in pairs,
old shirts no longer fit.
The ball, once splashed with ink,
fades upon my shoes, and I trace my way back.
I bend, and this time, I shrink.
Only consciousness refuses.
Themba T Twala III
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