Posted by: Ron DuBour | August 6, 2018

Why do you want me dead?~by Christopher Sonti Mothiba


 

 

Why do you want me dead?

Remember when we stared in the depth of our souls,
When our lips laid what illusions in our thought consumed as a promise,
And pledged to the gut of our souls not to be the people we are now.

Remember when our world was just ours,
When I pledged to boldly hold your hand,
Even through razors of tsunami’s teeth will never let go.

Remember when my voice sung anthems to an ear of your tickle bone,
When on stage set by the soft cushion of love vows,
When I swore to palm of my soul be gentle if time was to breaks our curtain.

I was there when your breath was stained and your eyes where pure,
When your lip was delicious to air words made our fight looks like to death,
You mended words to mould a promise to never injure the being that exist in me.

I was there to stare in the depth of your soul,
When your tongue rolled and your lip gave birth to a breath of words,
Words that where stained with pledge to never shutter my soul.

Now that our gold-plated curtain knows the breaking sounds of fall and,
Taste that cries in our lips when kissed now an imaginary and,
Now that our once living love knows the skin of a bone on a skull, why my death?

Now that a mask of our vows has washed like an eroding sand castle,
And ruin pillars of our nakedness run bare as our pledged paint washes,
And the animosity that only existed during the time of exile exists in us.

My soul knows no second thoughts to what was or where was,
Yet my being is butchered by a sword from hands of a face I love,
Yet my spirit is being burned by an acid breath of a soul I can’t hate.

Who were we to pass potent toxic venom in a cocktail of lies,
To pledge on a forged scrolls and note a seal with a vomiting pen,
It sad this has never crossed my thought that we could be a total lie.

We stand here on the spot that seems to be one
But my grounds seems to be foreign to your being,
As you have found an echo war in a trumpet of peace.

I stand with a cloth that have tasted a sight to milk,
But blazed in a shower of arrows that finds no end for a hand I loved.


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