you swallow too quickly, the rain poured
and Hercules grimaced in despair.
the cliff between his shoulders fell off and onto the moon with a bang and
a pow. all left was velvet. all left was blood.
you vanish the goodness before you like you owed it to yourself. a
stepping about the earth with the wrong foot at the wrong time,
dancer trapped by the routine.
until one moment
shook his fists at his lack of coordination so furiously
the night could do nothing but forgive him.
here, everything soothed, the problem is that you will not let yourself be truly alive.
you will not let yourself.
you will not let.
you will not.
in ode to the cracked moon, the stars began to chime:
you see the beauty in thirst hercules
and the glory in provision
but you do not accept the calm in procedure, in graduation, in progress.
in effect, your days become robotic and gyrate.
condemning of your own adventure.
you take cups for an unprophesy-ed drought and your muscles waste.
hercules, you drown. you kill yourself.
why do you kill yourself?
why do you fear?
the next time provision came
Hercules decided to pause and ask himself whether he was thirsty.
the heat is more bitter today
the hurt flows
for those whose names you never spoke
but who carried yours as treasure
the heart respects that you are gone, madiba
aie it slows more in search of the missing pulse
but you are not here
you never will be back here.
madiba, man that shook the world
may you find peace
may you find joy
in the arms of the Creator
and may our generation not be the last one to remember you.
oh the woes you shed
and the soar you leap,
a skipper fuddled by the dream.
do you know
you are worth the adventure
and worth the sacrifice?
how marvellous you are and will be
sweet honey, you are
a life scrabbled upon the earth
stalk of breath
deviant of the parched sand,
rebellion in the desert.
you are free.
you wring your prayers like wine
on the backs of blood
borne from a washer’s line
and history—-it does not ever wait.
this is how you know we are the same
and this is how i know you are just as searching,
waiting for the skin over your bones to make sense
and your mind to
into the flowers that make us.