The character of the myth exploded,
naked aggression on the souls started with,
meditation on death.
What was real?
The dignity of life or,
suicide of seed truth?
The classical colors were,
going to live only half-life.
Guilt was writ large, on the face of morality
and essence was always forgotton.
The kingdom had swallowed the strangers,
And king had killed the songs.
Adulterous games had become popular
every one was becoming a rengade.
Death will ultimately,
wipe out the signatures,
from the blackboard.
It would be a clean sweep.
Some body will go in trance,
start reciting a mantra,
for the sake of vanity,
and clarity of the moments of dawn.
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
A people’s heart can be found in their poetic words. In history men and women have stood firmly upon their soapboxes and street corners, rallying the deepest beliefs of people to rise up and be heard. The poetrypages.com has offered that voice a new
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