Sunday is disappearing into the waiting dusk and my old bones are resting after a day of chasing the dust out of my habitat. I tend to do this after days of letting the brood handle the chores around here for a week or so.
Come with me
Come with me to the creeks of my headspace
Where the shadows of my truth reign
Like the deities of the dark
And the words of my dense tongue cuts
Through the bleeding wound
That sits where my soul sleeps.
There is an ache to understand what I can't here. The urge to scroll through the sands of my time and point out what ails my healing man. The desire to dig deep into the past and scrutinize every deed that transformed into something I had to hide. Shame shouldn't know my name and guilt must be wary of my spirit.
Yet... I am still
That ashy village girl
Who washed away salty tears
From her delicate cheeks
In crystal clear streams
Where she fetched water
And spent time
With her wobbling sad reflection.
There is an unexplainable urge to uncover the being buried beneath my darkness. This unappeasable longing to find who I am past these blinding flaws and healing scars. An aching longing to finally mirror me back to myself.
For I know
I carry the marks of a modern warrior
Carved by the sharp edges
Of time and pain.
And so there also exists this sacred ambition of watching my ego die. This profound need to let it wane for these blindfolds to fall and let my spiritual eyes see past the clearing fog. And so these prime years keep revealing what my pride wants me to ignore.
Come with me
Come with me and let's soak in the light
Let those imaginary shackles
Fall off your tired spirit
Allow love to trickle down
Our spineless refurbished hearts
And the joy of liberating phrases
Will shine on our masked faces
For all times.
wambuku w.