The world may not have been made for us to thrive.
It is a strife-ridden space cut out to bleed us out.
Softened by sweat, sweetened through labour,
Only to be enjoyed somewhere we have not discovered, yet.
It sold a lie that the earth will give up gold to unaware beings made from earth being ferried back to earth on a man-made hearse.
Meticulously hand glazed coffins framed with pine wood are the finer things flesh will don, in clay, in the calmest of fashion, dead.
Bury me with my Hennessy.
Any heresies on my descending are cursed with hell fury.
Broke my back to break the bank for years.
Alas, my bent and broke back carrying a crushed spirit’s empty purse filled with melancholic memories, went back to earth a pauper.
Wealthy on paper not, but the breath of rotten barley fermenting my soul.
It insulated the carnal bruises pain from a dying spirit.
Fleshly anguish musk masqueraded in the smiles of a happy face downing the devil’s juice.
Only from the tapered end of the bottle did the world look better, as it sunk, eyes closed soaking the cold body warming fluid.
The world may have been made for us to thrive.
A bliss laden haven hardened by unwilling hearts but enjoyed by those up with the rising sun’s kisses…(to be continued)
by Tawanda Kuvengwawasara
