Saturday, April 23, 2011

My soul on a parchment

My linage leads back to Adam, the first human of the lord’s creation, so whether denied or accepted, the roamers of this planet are all related, but it’s on the differences that our eyes are fixated, our brains intoxicated so our thoughts is misted, vision with vanity dilated, the only common ground for the humans today is those who share in the despair of poverty.

You will never find my words empty, whether you comprehend the message, heavily laced with every single passage, unable to see that which lies before your eyes is nothing less then tragic, our values are so pretentious so our thoughts are septic, we open our mouths and what flows outwards is noxious and acidic, and we wonder why the world is so hectic, questioning if this was the way of man prehistoric.

I am addicted whether she loves me or she loves me not, nothing but time is wasted if I remain positioned on this very spot, wasting valuable moments watching the horizon, squinting to glimpse the distance, I drop my all for her in an instance, her name is life and until death do as part, she fills my heart with lust, like a sibling envious of the newborn suckling at her bust, the bond between humans must be based on trust, and I have let the elements erode that part of me so now its disintegrated from the rust.

Can you blame me, twenty something years old, of my motherland only dazzling stories I am told, and when i look at her I feel my stomach about to hurl, as the young and the elderly onto the ignorance they still hold, to the illness of tribalism that lead to generations suffering from a brain aneurism, while single mothers drag a minimum of five children and the youth sit and rot in her majesties prisons, courtesy of the tax we are paying, and the father sits in a coffee shop discussing how to manipulate and bread political hate.

I walk around my city and I am appalled and a grieved from what my eyes see, seeking ventilation from the fumes of revulsion that surround my people and me, my hands drip bloody, I prayer for heavenly rains to rinse me, replenish my soul and water the seeds of love in my populous, nourish the roots of kinship so success is the only surplus.

My only comfort is tracing the ink of my soul on this parchment, trying to navigate through this maze of resentment, if its not for my ethnicity then its my religion, besieged by my own kind and a hidden legion, smiles for my vision but oppressing me through legislation, under the influence remains the human, lies straight to my veins like a dose of opium, millions internally dead, kissed by the sting of a spiteful scorpion.

Still I am thankful to my maker, knowing he is the giver and the taker, what is his surely returns, leaving this realm with something to show for my soul surely burns, yet I struggle to maintain the prescribed, whether its worldly desires or foolish pleasure induced by thoughts of grandeur, I sit here alarmed as I know if I don’t strength the very essence of my being then my soul is in eternal danger.  

Hamza Egal © copyright 2011 all rights reserved.

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