Of Lanka, and her big Black Star

Of Lanka, and her big Black Star. That our shores may bring us closer, and our hope take us far.”

My neighbours speak French,  but you swim with the Indian,
We have the Equator to make us same, yet I stole the Meridian.
You with the tanned and me with the dark,
But what truly lies between a flint and it’s spark?
I stand besieged, but you fly solo,
Corruption is my fear, and poverty is your sorrow
Yes, we have awaited today that we may know tomorrow,
Only yesterday, we were the fuel to an Englishman’s ego.

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Know this, Please.

You think you found someone you can finally be yourself around
She thinks you want to round your squares
Let’s not mince words, what is there to impress?

“If I live to impress anyone, I’m my own audience”
C.2015

Finding Us

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“That the sooth from our burning differences may rise up and fall back as rain on our budding similarities”

I have looked for your anger in thunder storms,
And your coldness in January.
I have looked for your smile in the mornings,
And I’ve exchanged with myself letters in February.
I have looked for your eyes in rainbows,
And your youth in years gone by.
Wherever the winds will take me, I’ll go.
Prisons are but walls and cages are all doors,
To this fire that burns on all fours.
It has your smoke written, all over it.

Faya!

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Don’t give up on you.
Dear you,
The world is empty of fires like you
Darkness runs wild naked under the blazing sun
All day is sunset.
Dear you,
You’re the fire-crowned tower between where water meets earth
You’re the difference between the raging waves and the rocky cliffs
All lengths crave breath.
Dear you,
You’re the life in emotions
Fiery in wrath, and consuming in love
All smoke is mutiny.
Poor you,
You’re drowning in your own sorrow
Your fears are darkness in sooth
And smoke doesn’t always mean fire.
But don’t give up on you yet ,
Glowing embers may still burn fine.

Beneath Your Beautiful

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I want to see your nudity.
I want to touch the scars beneath your past. These lines carved deep within your canvas.

Like graffiti on a wall.

With Flowers, from this Soul.

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None of these words will ever reach her soul. There are these walls lined with broken beliefs and jaggered emotions they’d have to climb.
Unpunctuated feelings sway in and out of consciousness, beneath that chest.
She is a flower , among thorns. Weeds grow on her sides.
But she’s a flower beneath the sun too. She strives to survive the pricks perverting her youth.
There is gold within her greens even before they blossom. But she doesn’t know that. Maybe she’s only being modest about it.
These thorns aren’t company for a rose. And this rose may never rise.
But I am only another thorn after your youth. Just a buzzing  bee after your nectar.
Together, and we’d make gold. But what is honey to a fly?
Hello, Are You There?

A Question, Please?

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They say love is a beautiful thing. It brings winter spring, and lovers joy.
I know of one thing unlike love. It brings summer autumn, and progress fall.
They say it is the wind in the sail of pirate ships. I say it brings all.

What?

Too Late a Musing

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If you save a bullet for my fall, I will save a rose for yours. And we all know where wreaths go to die.

Kedy Kwakye
May 29, 2017
Late night musings