Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Moulded Relief

Hungry is just another word for deprivation
Over the heads of the homeless people
On the streets they’ve laid flowers
Where once a comrade shared the suffering
Where bare feet have scorned the cold, heartless concrete
Where pedestrians have step foot
On the roses and lilies and tulips
There is no room for empathy

Nor attention
Their morals are loose
Like the shreds falling off torn t-shirts
On backs of burden, stolen from charity bins
The trash, referred to as
Compassion
Like a siren running down the freeway
There’s still a jam

There’s an asterisk against freedom
It’s cold on my lips
And shoulders
When I shiver under the starlit sky
Who’s next on the savior’s list
Who’s this bending down
Outstretching their arm
Releasing their fingers

Where silver clatters on metal containers
Who leaves
With an entrance
Inside the premises of warm lighting
Enquires speak of but harm
Dinner for how many people
But those people
Are the people who leave

Stroll past my shrine
Collect my tears for fountain springs
Collect my sweat for olive oil
Fry those hearts
Oh those frozen hearts
Numb, and dead, and dumb
Turn down the music
Silver and clattering against the vulnerable chest

When my back brushes against the asphalt, it melts
I melt
I cry
I suffer
To the rhythm of the music of Mother Nature
Nature is fickle
The sky is grey and vast
The clouds are vicious 

On bed sheets of golden thread
Silk veneer
The squirming
Never ceases to sound
It’s music for some
For life
It is suffering
And then the thunder strikes

When the seas erupt
When the skies collapse
It’s all suffering
And it’s a masterpiece
It’s a piano, a guitar, a saxophone
It’s Mother Nature
Her orchestra
And we're still sleeping while they play their song