Blackened

It’s only in the land of black,
Where I can hold my pen and scribble,
Scribble and write
And then be prepared to die
Die an accident death,
Or by that stray bullet meant to kill a running thief

Only in the land of black
Am I prepared to die,
Die for what I write
To die for what they believed in
For death is just but an owl’s song
And with death comes rest

But still I write
Under the hungered shelters
Of cold and endless heat
Pain and dead music
And bulleted holes in my matchbox home

But I write
Cautiously,

Then listen,
Listen for approaching footsteps
So I hide my papers
Under the torn mattress and sheets

I write again

Of hard core crimes,
Slaved women and kids
In a land of white they chose not
Of impunity and scandals,
I write names in the sand,
And scribble reality on my paper

I write
Of black tears
Shed in a black land
Seen and ignored
Laughters…,
Smiles of the rich
Grins of the poor
Smirks of the underdogs
Feels right to write

Maybe the other side of black
A reincarnation of a lost hope!

But
I don’t want to die young
I too fear death
So I take my paper and eat

By Carolyn Gatonye