Wood
My foundation is of wood
– the thick, colonial type.
It screams hollow when I step on it
It shines smooth when I sweep it.
It reveals stains within its layers
Stains that rise like smudges of black blood.
Its foundation is a harvest of thorns
Its skin is painted with wrinkles of wasted years.
Its veins are as aligned as a famished choir
Singing disjointed choruses of oppression.
Yesterday I scrubbed it till it shone in the Sun
Then it exploded carrying me within its soft embrace.
Towards a new leap of faith
Towards freedom – O, sweet freedom.
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tambirai.com 
Very powerful, indeed! Talk of real poetry.
a prickle from oppression into the passages freedom
where war was a pediment of realizing freedom which we assume we did not have
an appreciation of language before the message
can be yet another view
poetry is key to the unknown world
poetry has defined what we all attempt run from
a prickle from oppression into the passages freedom
where war was a pediment of realizing freedom which we assume we did not have
an appreciation of language before the message
can be yet another view
poetry is key to the unknown world
poetry has defined what we all attempt run from
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