Chaos Of Entanglement

 

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Cyrus – Part 2

I can see the wound,

Mirrored now, in my stomach;

The rivers run red

Escaping from the mountain’s summit,

Bursting out from the dams

And these hands, my hands morrooned!

Soiled in blood!

I watch in horror,

My eyes glued,

As it trickles down my fingertips

In vast vast volumes,

Like waterfalls chasing the cliff’s edge.

And all the warmth of my being evaporated;

Leaving only the heavy handed stillness of the cold,

So cold

And the sharp bite forced by the blade’s mold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold

And to consume the colour of my knowing;

A vain attempt to erase what has already been seen,

But I can still feel the ghost of the blade

And the blood just keeps on flowing,

It keeps on flowing.

Only it’s not me.

My body is over there!

There on the pavement!

What am I?

A reflection,

An echo?

Maybe this is my soul’s limbo?

Shit!

How will my story be told?

Any moment now

The vultures will descend

For their pound of flesh;

Pens in hands, like talons,

Scavaging with reckless abandon.

I can see it now on the news,

Like a vision

And the half masted vesseled truths

Shipped from the anchor’s puppet led tongue:

“Locals observed a group of black youths,

On the corner of Head’s Mews,

Enter into a disagreement,

Which then escalated

And resulted

In a  fatal stabbing.

Leaving the victim dead

On the concrete pavement

Near the scene of the crime.

Raising London’s death toll

From knife crime

To rise to 59.

We asked the London Mayor:

‘What has increased this surge in knife crime

Amongst black on black youths to climb?’”

I wonder, will they refrain

From mentioning my name?

Continue serving up sentences

Based on bias convictions

Because my melanin predicates

That i’m more violent towards my ‘own’ kin?

That’s how they’ll spin!

Publicising false indictments against the colour of my skin

And my name hidden behind headlines

And pictures of designer hand-bags

And erectile dysfunction adds!

Fuck me right?!

Nevermind though-

Just another lad

Mixed up in ‘gang related’ crime.

Victim 59;

A predictable faceless statistic

On a bell curve

Shaping an ambiguous graph,

To serve no purpose!

None!

“And now for the weather where you are.

How’s it looking?”

 

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Chaos Of Entanglement

 

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Cyrus – What’s in a name?

It was in summer that I was born and named;

A late bloomer conceived and coloured by midnight

And cradled by the moon’s grace.

By autumn, news threw leaves of vicissitude

On this pubescent nation,

Which seeded voices of confusion.

For years I was unable to name myself in the right hues,

But I endeavoured to compare my skin

Amongst all the other named colours;

I tasted them all,

But none were in season and so I thought.

Arrogance had blinded this sighted boy,

But only briefly.

And as realisation began the process

Of unfurling her bright petaled wings,

I was gifted the vision of clarity.

In the sense that I could see,

That, I too, have yet to reveal my named colours

And only through the invitation

Of spring’s celebration

Could I unveil, the shape, the colour, the fragrance

Within my name.

My mantra would be patience.

Slain in winter’s wake,

I wilted and became nameless;

Lost and buried under soil,

My voice was tapered by foul and twisted tongues.

I was never named in spring.

I remain the ‘budding boy slain: Victim 59.’

This is not my name.