Kafkaesque (mort)

this waiting room is painted of pain,

featuring faces with mouths down-turned, 
impatience taking up these empty seats, 
of family members already lost, 
we feel like the least loved
in the mighty grasps of almighty fate’s
crushing hands,
we feel like the last patients 
to be visited during the night shifts, 
by nurses and doctors, 
the times of day when the most dust
is swept back to the humble soil 
by an unseen, yet not-so-invisible bashing broom.
the old fan – barely hanging – 
is closing in full circle, 
a whole life lived. 
dull curtains, some unhooked and five minutes to falling, 
alongside the walls stripes
designed with print of doctors’ usual words, 
“i’m so sorry for your loss.”  

if life truly begins at forty, 
then her’s ended at the starting line. 
this would be a misplaced and mixed metaphor 
if it weren’t for olympics silently running in the background on the t.v. 
reminds me of my mute cries, surprised eyes bulging, gaping mouths with no sound. 

It was ought to be a preventative measure; just a routine operation 
a possibly cancerous lump. 
I am flipping aimlessly through these magazine pages, 
each catching a tear-drop for the dog-ears
(whoever reads them next will turn over the pages better).
Some puzzled maze pieces fall out of a box, 
my baby cousin tries to gather the cardboard paper of a family tree picture,
but the least important twigs are lost, and the last friendly branch found missing. 
The many portraits that make up the landscape go away from time to time. 
it was just a little, smallish lump
these news are hard to swallow. 
my eyes are peeling onions. 
my throat is winter-hands dry.
mum says she saw her the most alive
a few odd minutes before time clocked aunt out. 
grandma’s sister blames herself for suggesting, advising, and in retrospect putting “pressure”.
neutral colours dirty the scrubs floors, 
hypothermia lurking in the corridors, 
but the coke from the vending machine is medicine lukewarm. 

It was a game of musical chairs, 
But when the seven trumpets sounded, 
the stools remained still, they stood facing eastward in hexagonal formation 
an angel ascended, the remnants were six shadows now. 
With a plot twist, it’s less players each round. 
Who dies first wins, I’ve tossed too much soil on dust, my hands are dirty. 
We wash our hands clean with this paraffin. 
Open-casket, the last sight took my breath away – the whitened clay still one
but with the breath of life taken away, by the One, who giveth and taketh. 
it’s also winter our hearts. 
dips of grief, dabs of black clothing, grim-reaper the thief, we still loath him.
another weekend
another sad-a-day
another funeral. 
and his life was a summary, 
too brief a breath, as the contraction is. 
no sympathy to bother saying
“i am”. 
public or private hospitals, dark clouds gather above all.

twenty twelve was a scar, 
for four years now we are still scooping our scabs from the bottomless pits, 
that fell from ever-fresh wounds picked at a tad too prematurely, 
so very early. 
some of the things we will take to our graves, 
will take us to our graves, as we exhume our pre-mourning selves. 
And hurt still drops in drips, 
red-bottomed-sticky feet from the blood washed tiles, 
the pain and the paint in permanent.
Some matters you can only ever think about
when you are half-awake and half-asleep, because these nightmares 
are too real to be dreams
uThixo Ovayo unoNobantu, nabantu bakhe bonke ngamaxesha onke

~ by New-Black-SoUl #NBS

(C) 2016. Phila Dyasi. Copyrighted 31 August 2016. NuBlaccSoUl™. Intellectual property. All rights reserved. Please quote poem with author name, poem title and date published if sharing to external sites without the link or/and if sharing an excerpt of the poem.

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Author: NuBlaccSoul

...writings & the other things

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