Does not penetrate,
it brushes superficially.
Repeating me, from dot to dot, it leaps.
The ego performs swift impulses
blasting the constellations of simple arithmetic.
Blue sky gives a second thought,
strange colors appear.
Love has changed the skyline
and labels are fading.
Virginal truth has lost its burning print.
It flaunts and swears like a theater.
Bedecked, larger than reality,
second hand puppets rule the master.
Empty vessel pours out faith.
The city walks at dawn,
night lives in metaphors.
Gritty myths disturb the neighbourhood,
salvaging comforts from rumours.
In dreams we hear the clapping of hands.
Hopelessness burns me like a savage fire.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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