We found this in our inbox the other day. The very first entry. It’s from Palesa who expressed being a poetry lover. Enjoy her poem.
Is there any worse betrayal than one born from our own flesh?
In death it gives us up, to God knows what, Only God knows.
Maybe our souls sublime into beautiful words of poetry,
And condense sentimentally into the thoughts of our beloved.
Maybe our souls condense into colourful clouds of what we have mothered.
Descending to nurture our daughters and sons.
But the worst of being is a spirit that ceases to embody who we are. When love withers, the heart exists in rigor mortis
I wonder when did your heart stop listening.
I kept on drumming, to keep it beating, in moments that you stopped dancing…with me.
You would swear there was another drummer, that stole our rhythm. She with an angel smile….
So I screamed my lungs out to breathe you back to life. But I guess death was louder.
He with a big beard basking on his throne. Calling you home.
But I thought vocation was a place, also called home.
I guess I was wrong